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. Her foster father had been outside for most of the morning, working on trimming the maple trees and mowing the lawn. “There’s another instinct, too,” he went on, “in a state of suppression, unless I’m very much mistaken; a child-expelling instinct. . I’M shaken. She opened the door with a neon colored key.
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