She was practically an outcast, she had not even the ghost of a plan as to her future, and she had something less than five pounds in her pocket. 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 find you excessively rude, both of you,’ said the lady crossly.
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