“What can one say?” she exclaimed. 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. So he sharpened a score of pencils, and after fiddling about and rewriting the last page he had written the previous night, he plunged into work. Play foul, and win. Submission to the inevitable carried her through the circumstances of her appearance before the magistrate.
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