” Lucy added, growing weary. Jacques, Jacques!’ His face was white, but his eyes were open, if a trifle glazed. 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. They had got all this down already—they heard the substance of it now for the fourteenth time.
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