But not so much a pig as that man. The love-songs of all the ages were singing in her blood, the scent of night stock from the garden filled the air, and the moths that beat upon the closed frames of the window next the lamp set her mind dreaming of kisses in the dusk. It will be a little lonely sometimes,” she said, looking around at them, “and I shall miss you all, but it is the fairest for myself —and I think for you.
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