Her thought spoke aloud. ‘I’m only a poor country wench, child. “You need a reason. 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. The wine bubbled and seethed; and the exquisite bouquet of oranges permeated the room.
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