"The glass never sinks in that way, d'ye see, without a hurricane follerin', I've knowed it often do so in the West Injees. 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. ” “I have a clue, at any rate,” he remarked, smiling. I believe that his recovery was considered almost miraculous.
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