She gained her room, and slammed her door and locked it as though she feared violence and pursuit. The honey on his tongue turned to ashes. She found she could do her microscope work all the better for being in love. It warms me, and lights me, and fills my world with flowers. 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. ‘Maman?’ ‘How touching,’ said a sarcastic voice behind her in French.
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