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Then, from a loggia above the central portico, a woman's clear contralto notes took flight: Before the yellow dawn is up, With pomp of shield and shaft, Drink we of Night's fast-ebbing cup One last delicious draught. The shadowy wine of Night is sweet, With subtle slumbrous fumes Crushed by the Hours' melodious feet From bloodless elder-blooms...
It was more like a scene in a romance than a thing in real life. Hugh stood unobserved beneath a tree, and looked long at the delightful picture; and then presently wandered further by a grassy lane, with high hedges full of wild roses and elder-blooms, where the air had a hot, honied perfume.
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