One doesn’t realize that even the sort of civilization one has at Morningside Park is held together with difficulty. 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. “Well, I don’t feel like standing it. It is foolish, she murmured to herself, foolish. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up.
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