The fact that it was her trusted friend making illicit love to her remained, in spite of all her effort, an insignificant thing in her mind. The gardens were tidy and geometric, each avenue with a different purpose: flowers for cutting, herbs, brightly colored vegetables. “Mary! What’s going on! Why are you crying?!” He commanded an answer in a worried and slightly irritated tone. “Here’s something rather good,” he said, and with a start and an effort she took his place at the microscope, while he stood beside her and almost leaning over her.
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