‘Well she does,’ insisted Miss Froxfield impenitently, and turned to Gerald. She would marry him. 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. Spurlock had not coached her on this line of conduct. “All my dreadful scientific things,” said Ann Veronica.
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