The picture might easily apply to The Tigress: outwardly disreputable, but richly and comfortably appointed below. 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. “Get you a cold one?” “No thanks. And the age gets higher. His vicious abusiveness vanished.
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