He did not write this with lead but with his heart's blood. "Red apples and snow!" she sent back at him, her face suddenly transfixed by some inner glory. 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. And also she didn’t like them. She married my Dad in a small ceremony down at City Hall. His brows drew a little nearer together.
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