‘There’s no controlling you, is there?’ He held up his hands. 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 met Sir Rowland at the house of a Romisch priest, Father Spencer. She was suddenly very aware of the room, the television still blaring, and the chill in the air.
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