Mr. ” He stood before her, his hat in his hand, his head bent, his voice lowered to a convenient pitch. And turning again, as if the emotions she had churned up kept her on the move, she paced back to the mantel and there stopped, staring at her own reflection in the tarnished mirror. You must think of this evening, John, sometimes—as a sort of atonement. Almost light-heartedly. 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. Mr. She slipped out the window, jumping to the ground from the second story with very little sound. ‘You!’ ‘Yes, it is I, mademoiselle,’ he continued in his own tongue.
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