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. I care for you. This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains. What about them?” He called a hansom. Fascination.
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