The dizziness made the trees sickening, the smell of Michelle’s perfume soapy and revolting. I am. 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. Later, she understood his reasons; and it had now become habit. Why? Because Howard Spurlock the author dared not risk the liberty of Howard Spurlock the malefactor; because there were still some dregs in this cup of irony. “Ungracious little beast, I call her. ‘I’m damned if I see what you have to complain of,’ uttered Charvill, a faintly bewildered note underlying his irascibility.
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