Nevertheless, she was still fighting. The chromatic fiction with which he relieved his mind glanced but slightly at this aspect of life, and never with any quality of guidance. 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 storm appeared to have blown over, for they were conversing in a very amicable manner with Mr. For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. "Aw, piffle!" he said, half aloud and rather disgustedly, as he stepped out into the sunshine.
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