The problem had returned, made gigantic by the possibility of Ruth's love. She accepted his rejoinder with a brief nod. “It is not that. ‘You can’t prove nothing. 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. The perfume was the only one she ever used.
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