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CHAPTER XXIII. She wrote it down. “One doesn’t wait,” said Ann Veronica. Since the discovery of them, she had been madly eager to read these typewritten tales. 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. ” Mr.
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