“Well?” she said, sitting down again. I’ve never found them hostile. 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. " "To-morrow will be too late," replied the widow, in a hollow voice, "I feel it will. " "Could I credit your wild story, I might do so," returned Thames, with a look of perplexity.
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