Every now and then something familiar in her tone, the poise of her head, the play of her eyes startled him. “My dear girl,” he said, in a tone of patient reasonableness, “you are a mere child. Fruit trees had been brought all the way from India so their product could be laden on the wedding table, fruits with exotic shapes and haunting flavors ended the meal, cleansing the palate. ‘You know pretty much everything you need to know. ‘Laisse-moi,’ she panted, shifting wildly in his hold, so that he had all to do to keep her thus imprisoned.
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