I am ready to wait for you, to wait your pleasure, to give all my life to winning it. The soil was identical, the climate; still, they would not bear the Olympian fruit, with its purple-lined jacket and its snow-white pulp. The touch of her hands was pleasurable. ‘Would you care for some refreshment? A glass of wine, perhaps?’ ‘Nothing, merci, I do not remain,’ she answered, although she did not rise. “Just leave them with me for now, Clotilde.
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