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. His salvation—if there was to be any—lay in her ignorance of life. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story.
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