” Horace, the manservant, transformed now into the semblance of a correctly garbed waiter, threw open the door. 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. The Foundation makes no representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United States. The air was sweet with the smoky perfume of myrrh, hazy and dense with incense.
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