Nevertheless, Ann Veronica found it a difficult matter not to think of these things. The dress was her mother's, and she was wearing it to save a little extra money. 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. His mother smiled in return, an act that brightened her thin face. “What the hell.
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