One would say she could try to —to prevent that her daughter will go to the convent. 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 has already forgotten it. Though encumbered by his irons, his step was firm, and his demeanour dignified.
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