A sob was strangled in her throat. She was going through with that, anyhow. 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. ’ ‘I think you understand me very well. ‘Jarvis Remenham was your mother’s father. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. I made the pies.
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