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. There was a certain air of forced fortuity in his manner. He was unaware that his illness had opened the way to the inherent conscience and that the acquired had been temporarily blanketed, or that there was any ancient fanaticalism in his blood. If I were Mr. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. Still, her face never betrayed this distraction.
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