” “It’s some sort of delirium,” said Capes. F. Drummond patted him on the shoulder. Are you sure what it is you want of me?” “I want you. Good heavens! She was discussing love-making. You have never felt the hearts of all hardened against you; have never heard the jeer or curse from every lip; nor endured the insult and the blow from every hand. 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. These were his mistresses, Poll Maggot and Edgeworth Bess. Also he is ugly.
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