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. Clement's church. “It’s unforgivable of me to call, Miss Stanley,” he said, shaking hands in a peculiar, high, fashionable manner; “but you know you said we might be friends. She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. From the first there had always been between her and her listeners that electrical sympathy which only a certain order of genius seems able to create. For a few minutes, she appeared scarcely sensible of his presence. His pale and boyish waist was nearly as slim as her own. But never had the hand touched her with a father's caress; never had he taken her into his arms; never had he kissed her. " Mrs.
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