"Impossible!" exclaimed the widow, wildly. "They say her son's taken at last, and is to be hanged. Little things, almost impalpable, had happened to justify that doubt; something in his manner had belied his words. 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. As you brew so must you drink. When she told him that the natives called her The Dawn Pearl, his delight was unbounded.
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