CHAPTER VIII. James Figg was the most perfect master of self-defence of his day. ‘Fiddle, Gerald. He fancied that when they had had time to reflect, they would regret it still more. 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.
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