‘You can’t go to England. Am I going to die?” “I am afraid that you are in a dangerous state,” Courtlaw answered gravely. 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. An Englishwoman. The gentlemen are so particular now, and a good thing too, I say. Goodbye. She and Courtlaw drove homewards together.
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