Sometimes he was obviously irritable and uncomfortable and unfortunate in his efforts to seem at ease. 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. “Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion. The inn was a military haunt. He did it, he said, “to distract his mind.
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