A stout wooden shutter, opening inwardly, being removed, disclosed a grating of iron bars. “But your sister?” he asked. You say I know nothing. I tried it myself, Sir. 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’s a pure joy of giving—giving to YOU. Eventually her movements carried her to the little stand at the side of the bed.
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