This last operation was so fatiguing, that for a short time he was obliged to pause to recover the use of his fingers. 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 question ceased to be a tea-table talk, and became suddenly tragically real for Ann Veronica. She stumbled through a thorny copse, her slippers sliding on patches of sand that gave way to rock. “In all fairness,” she thought to herself as she coaxed his mouth toward her left nipple. Smith's melody had subsided.
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