But one must disguise oneself. ‘And I don’t mind telling you it goes agin’ the grain with me to let you go free and all, missie. 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. There must be something we can do.
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