The scent of cloying pine dust filled the air as floodlights shone eerily through the jungle gym of new wood. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. Not to go to her is wickeder than if I had run away with my friend's wife. The woollen-draper looked at his watch. . ’ ‘Unless it is Captain Roding,’ put in Lucilla Froxfield from the curved back sofa on the other side of the fireplace. ‘It is all too probable that she would wish to change into lay clothing to escape recognition. " "But, man, this chap hasn't fallen soft. She got into rows through meddling with their shoes and tennis-rackets, and had moments of carefully concealed admiration when she was privileged to see them just before her bedtime, rather radiantly dressed in white or pink or amber and prepared to go out with her mother.
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