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. ” She replied with a rehearsed answer, “I was told that my real mother died the day I was born. They live in Arizona now, just as happy as ever from what I hear. "Your son," answered the boy. Now, do what you please. Jackson?" said Wood, significantly. Those are all nice things, but it’s not what I want. I loved her so much.
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