He was absolutely unable to focus his ideas. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. 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.
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