“We have a small studio,” she murmured, “in the Rue de St. 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. ” Their agreement so far seemed remarkable, and yet as a home-coming the thing was a little lacking in warmth.
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