A faint, delightfully humorous smile parted her lips. The third item she took with a trembling hand by its waistbelt. The oranges were of the Syrian variety, small but filled with scarlet honey. ” She covered her face with her hands. I’ve made up my mind. I did not care—no woman really cares—to play the beggar maid to your King Cophetua. 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. ’ ‘I’m coming to that.
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