These were less like streets than labyrinths, hewn through an eternal twilight. ‘Ain’t no call for you to go a-blaming of yourself. . I must go to-night, or I shall never behold him again. 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. How can you say such things? You’re too young to be married, and realize this: you’re not ready. Jack Kimble.
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