"Your mother is dead," interposed Wild, scowling. 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 first person you love, Ann Veronica, is yourself—get hold of that! The soul you have to save is Ann Veronica’s soul.
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