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. ‘Marry an Englishman! Which Englishman?’ Melusine shrugged. ‘How did you guess?’ ‘I guessed as soon as you said this was your house. I won't dig their graves with my nails. ‘And how do you propose to get in?’ ‘Scullery window. ‘Well, what was I to think, miss? Martha never wrote nothing about you, and I did ask. Only one thing emerged with any reasonable clarity in her mind at once, and that was that unless she was saved from drowning by an unmarried man, in which case the ceremony is unavoidable, or totally destitute of under-clothing, and so driven to get a trousseau, in which hardship a trousseau would certainly be “ripping,” marriage was an experience to be strenuously evaded. He grew more ardent, sliding her breasts out of the strapless bodice of her gown.
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