148 “Sure. “Mind my smoking?” said Roddy. 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 could tell it was Italian, you see. I don’t mean I’m not a good woman—I mean that I’m not a GOOD woman. ’ ‘I think you understand me very well. "Ah!" ejaculated Mrs.
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