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 ain’t never,’ gasped Pottiswick. "How long shall I be here?" he asked. These petals! I’ve been wanting to cry all the evening, cry here on your shoulder for my petals. He lit a cigarette and loitered about. ‘Alors, I see how is this. "No"—as if her thoughts were elsewhere.
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