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. It’s just that I want to say. She would then hear his feet pounding up the steps and he would burst into whatever room she was sitting in and say, “There she is! My wife! Hiding her beauty from the world!” He would then run to her, grab her book or embroidery and unceremoniously toss them to the floor. The fire still burned brightly. Lucy followed her. Rubbishy novels and pernicious rascals. “If you must go on with it,” said Hetty, “now’s your time. So far as the eye could reach, the white level road, with its fringe of elm-trees, was empty.
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