Then, I thought, she has repented, all will be well. 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. He caught the smirk. There is something that inspires a feeling of inexpressible melancholy in sailing on a dark night upon the Thames. A girl—at my age—is grown-up.
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