Love is no hot-house flower, but a wild plant, born of wet night, born of
an hour of sunshine; sprung from wild seed, blown along the road by a wild
wind. A wild plant that, when it blooms by chance in within the hedge of our
gardens, we call a flower; and when it blooms outside we call a weed; but,
flower or weed, whose scent and colour are always wild! And further – the facts and figures of their
own lives being against the perception of truth – it was not generally recognised
by Forsytes that, where, this wild plant springs, men and women are but moths
around the pale, flame-like blossom.
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