‘Except Captain Roding,’ agreed the old lady, nodding at the butler. As she went on, the story began to sound more and more like a recitation. 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. "You forget that you promised me a kiss the last time you were here.
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