II was very easy for the Tobacco Plant to talk so lightly of love. Every ﬂower in the old manor garden knew that she had a nasty smoking-room mind, and only came out in the evening. The Convolvulus, growing over the garden wall, who went to bed at respectable hours, felt absolutely convinced that her over-scented neighbour was a. Most improper person.
To the impure, she whispered to the old Yew Hedge, into whose society she had pushed herself that summer, all things are impure.
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