Jack was so harrassed that he felt half inclined to stand at bay. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. 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. Her cogitations were dissipated by a knock on the door. Old farmhouses loomed as they whizzed by, left behind in the gray like mourners.
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