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. Perhaps there were experiences she would never confide to any man. You see, I—I am a woman worshipper. “It’s odd—I have no doubt in my mind that what we are doing is wrong,” he said. “Well?” he asked her tersely. Baptist Kettleby (for so was the Master named) was a "goodly portly man, and a corpulent," whose fair round paunch bespoke the affection he entertained for good liquor and good living.
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