" "You will remain longer than you anticipate," muttered Wild. “Because you used to be my friend, Lucy, and now I don’t get to see you anymore unless I can get into your house. 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. ‘You don’t favour her, bar the black hair.
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