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. Because she states her case in a tangle, drags it through swamps of nonsense, it doesn’t alter the fact that she is right. ‘Gérard is not mad, only of a disposition entirely interfering. “Never—but, by Jove, you had a narrow escape,” Ennison exclaimed. She sat on the edge of her bed and looked about her, at her room, at the row of black-covered books and the pig’s skull.
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