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. I have given up painting. CHAPTER XVIII. "Poor Jack!" cried Winifred, burying her face in her lover's bosom. "Shall I help you on with it, Sir?" replied the Jew, becoming suddenly respectful.
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