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. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. ‘Oh, I don’t wish to marry you. Meantime, O'Higgins wended his way to the Victoria, mulling over this and that phase, all matters little and big that bore upon the chase.
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