Not Trodger. 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. After all, it was what she had been praying for—and Annabel could not have known her address. “Lucy, are you feeling all right?” He asked concernedly. "What did you ring for, Sir?" she asked, eyeing the group with astonishment.
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