He blushed, too, spiritually, as it were. Shall we say at half-past seven?” She rose from her chair. His face was a little flushed perhaps, and his small, brown eyes were bright. The air was sweet with the perfume of flowers, and the melody of murmuring insects, the blue sky was cloudless, the heat of the sun was tempered by the heather-scented west wind. Wild has made up his mind, and, when that's the case, all the persuasion on earth won't turn him.
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