She calls us her guests, but in reality we are her prisoners. “It may be more difficult than you think,” she said. 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. A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand. F.
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