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. You’re mine. We can love on a snow cornice, we can love over a pail of whitewash. ” “My dear young lady,” the official said irritably, “this man would not have your name and address in his pocket without an object. “No, I’m not a virgin.
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