My eyes are open to you. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. She hadn't meant to ask anything for herself. Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud.
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