The Widgetts talked with a remarkable absence of external coverings; the Palsworthys found all the meanings of life on its surfaces. She was always initiating petty breaches of discipline. 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. ‘Beg pardon, miss, but I’m told as how—’ She broke off, her eyes widening, her jaw dropping open.
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