"By my shoul!" he exclaimed, smacking his lips, "dat ish goot—very goot. I do not know. 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. He was not there. The tail-ender of this little caravan, he had been rather out of it. I’m taking no chances.
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