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 dodged the boot this time, and smashed his left upon the Wastrel's lips, leaving them bloody pulp. From head to foot he was attired in the fashionable garb of the young man of the moment. ’ She inclined her head, looking up at him through her lashes, and passing a tongue lightly over her lips.
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