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. There had been fusses and scenes dimly apprehended through half-open doors. “Don’t you understand? It is I whom you cared for in Paris, not Anna. “Can you spare me a moment?” he asked.
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