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“It’s a flabby, loose-willed world we have to face. 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 won’t even ask. "Surely," she said, after a pause, "you don't attach any importance to what my mother has just said. You will have a bungalow to yourself," continued McClintock, "and your morning meal will be your own affair.
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