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She was vaguely happy over this arrangement which put her in the wing across the middle hall, alone. “You seem to have come from Miss Pellissier’s rooms. 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. ‘Go on, Gerald. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s.
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