She was weeping now. 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. She pointed. He was content to talk about himself, though in the back of his clever mind he already suspected that she was not offering any details about her life. It clicked and the bookshelf was once more intact.
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