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. She was beauty, the key of magic, the teacher of spells, the predictor of wars, and the gate of the future. ‘Silence,’ hissed a voice in French. There is no poison that would affect her. The manager twisted his moustache. Arriving at the chapel, their wonder increased.
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