“When did you start?” She said between puffs. 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. You cannot draw. They don’t count, and I don’t care. The condition of the rooms was indescribably filthy and disgusting; nor were the habits of the occupants much more cleanly.
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