She wanted him, she needed sex, but the two ideas had not formed an equation where a concrete result could be deduced. If she had any idea at all, it was something she dimly recalled from her books: something celestially beautiful, with a happy ending. But I will disappoint you. At the back of the house, on a bank, rose an old-fashioned terrace-garden, full of apple-trees and other fruittrees in blossom, and lively with the delicious verdure of early spring. So he decided to stay. “Well, no,” she answered.
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