148 “Sure. " "You'll dance upon nothing, presently," rejoined Jonathan, brutally. 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. It was also cold, and dark, for there had been no time to light the lantern. We were only—les autres.
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