" "Poor child!" muttered Trenchard, abstractedly; "the whole scene upon the river is passing before me. My dear—I can call you that here, anyhow—I know that. 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. She uncrossed her legs and lowered herself, carefully and slowly, until she lay supine.
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