‘Sapristi,’ he gasped. “I must read him when I come out. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. \"Where are you going?\" She cried. I'll try to fill in the gaps. ‘Do you think I do not know? If this pig has not done so, there would be no need for me to do it. 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.
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