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. This species of madness cannot properly be attributed to his illness, though its accent might be. “You love some one else?” he repeated. Mr. Mr. Capes kept obstinately stiff, and spoke between his teeth. But about the unknown Englishman she was not so satisfied. “Mr.
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