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He wore a threecornered hat, a sandy-coloured scratch wig, and had a thick woollen wrapper folded round his throat. She could not say to Michelle that the Vorsack house had more than just a little tinge of “bad”. “There is my aunt,” she said. ” Lucy begged. 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.
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