There was now a girl in the picture, so it seemed. This is a plot entirely abominable, and I scorn to be part of it. The feeling of last days grew stronger with her as their number diminished. She would often steal away to tryst with him in the orchard, even now she felt her loins grow warm with the memory of his ardor. Lucia had never been so happy, so content. He became a little less en garde. ‘Don’t be so absurd.
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