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. . In spite of God and wasps and her father, she had stolen plums; and once because of discovered misdeeds, and once because she had realized that her mother was dead, she had lain on her face in the unmown grass, beneath the elmtrees that came beyond the vegetables, and poured out her soul in weeping. They'll be back soon enough—or not at all. “Odd little room,” said Ann Veronica, dimly apprehending that obtrusive sofa. He must be more or less of an age with this man.
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