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. “Have some more port wine, sir?” “It’s a very sound wine,” said Mr. "Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard. But I believe that Mr. 1. "Why, it means that people will think evilly of you. “Get you a cold one?” “No thanks.
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