” She breathed an inner sigh of relief. She had time in the afternoons to do crewelwork and embroidery, no longer occupied by the constant spinning of wool. 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. Afterward, one afternoon, he hovered about her, and came and sat beside her and talked of beauty and the riddle of beauty for some time.
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