She had to resist an impulse of sheer terror, to run out after them and give in. 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 went to her bedroom, but she did not go to bed. Anna turned round with a start, which was almost of guilt, the poker still in her hand. [Illustration: Distinctive Pictures Photoplay. “Perhaps,” he said, “I have been to blame.
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