The tourist season would soon be at ebb, and it would be late in September before the tide returned. “You see,” said Ann Veronica, with the air of one who shares a difficulty, “I’ve promised to go. 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.
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