His hands were exploring her once again in the car. 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. ‘He prayeth best who loveth best—all things both great and small. His smile faded. Just as they reached the end of the passage, they heard the voices of Jonathan and the Jew in Thames's late place of confinement. And like that gospel it meant something, something different from its phrases, something elusive, and yet something that in spite of the superficial incoherence of its phrasing, was largely essentially true. I’m six hundred and forty-eight years old, John! I should have never seduced a young boy, let alone expected him to keep my secrets for me.
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