“Muck-headed moral ass! I ought to have done anything. 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 dropped a flower—it’s in my pocket-book now. ’ ‘Well, let us leave your name for the present.
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