Old saltwater was right. 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. Now I ain’t saying as how that there Pottiswick—’ ‘How you talk,’ interrupted Melusine impatiently. I shall lose my fees and the laced coat.
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