DEAD VIOLETS w/ Direct link technology (A Romantic Story)

His only indulgence was to send violets to her home in Paris for the ninth of December; the ninth of December was her birthday, and violets she had once told him were her favorite flower. He did not scribble any greeting with them, did not even enclose a card; he was sure that she would know who sent them, and it lightened his pain to feel that she would know. Indeed, to recall himself to her thus mutely was a joy, the only joy that he had experienced since the day of the "good-by "; almost it was as if he were going to her, that moment in the London florist's when he held the flowers that would reach her hands; she did not seem so lost to him for the moment, the separation did not seem so blank.