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. “Put her in the trunk. “You are one of the Hampshire Pellissiers, I know, and your family are quite as good as ours. ‘Then let her keep her Frenchified titles to herself. Oh, peste, he will ruin all.
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