"Not exactly," answered Jonathan, drily. 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. He was a little impressed by Ann Veronica’s metaphor of the string, which, indeed, she owed to Hetty Widgett.
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