" "Vouldn't it!" replied Jack, mimicking his snuffling voice; "then shtay vere you are, and be cursed to you. That was the only sound he heard. In each corner stood a stout square post reaching to the ceiling. 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. He did not speak for a moment. He did not care whether the stories were accepted or not.
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