I'm not quite such a greenhorn as Shotbolt, Jack, whatever you may think. " So saying, he violently shut and locked the door. 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. But was that enough? Dim, formless suspicions of something more vital wandered about his mind.
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