One’s got to be a better man than one’s father, or what is the good of successive generations? Life is rebellion, or nothing. 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. They were at the corner of Pall Mall now, and had come to a standstill.
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