She was sorry for his liking her too much for his own good, but her need was too desperate to cavil at turning it to useful account. "Holloa—what's that?" cried Austin, starting up. 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. She could not resist enduing persons she met with the noble attributes of the fictional characters.
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