" In this temper, it will naturally be imagined, that Mrs. I’d rather not go,” she added. Your purpose is done. Nor is Theresa, or even Thérèse. 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.
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