‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. 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. She may be an infuriating little devil, but she is far from stupid.
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