I next proceeded to Jenny Bunch's, the Ship, in Trig Lane—there I got the same answer. No matter how often she came across this phase in love stories, there was never anything explanatory: as if all human beings perfectly understood. Sheppard, attend to what I'm about to say to you. Looking for something, or someone, probably. 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 old lady clearly read his state of mind, for the apparently irrepressible dimple peeped out. She had very few clear memories before a particular day in the library, when they had finished one of her first reading lessons.
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