He stood with his hands in his pockets looking at Miss Klegg’s back. Their conversation hung. And, after all, a fine clear sky of bright colors is the signal to come out of hiding and rejoice and go on with life. 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 emerald wings, slashed with scarlet and yellow, wheeling and swooping about her head, there among the wild plantain. . ‘Let’s check the rest of it and then I suppose we will have to break in. ‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. The Magdalene.
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