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. Beauty doesn’t mean, never has meant, anything—anything at all but you. “When did you get home last night, Lucy?” Cathy interrogated through a yawn. I will take you for thirty-five shillings a week.
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