Her birthday was four months away, and that, at its extremist point, might give her another five pounds. Even then it sent Spurlock spinning backward, to crash against the wall. 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. The clock struck half-past ten. “I will make it possible,” he cried. ‘Something wrong, madame?’ Her fan came up swiftly, hiding the lower part of her face. Though, to be fair, he did not know of it until after the wedding. Perhaps for the first time he realized that Anna was by no means an ordinary person.
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