One post-midnight meeting, she could stand it no longer. Then light footsteps became audible, descending the staircase with a certain deliberation and a faint rustle of skirts. Her mouth was worthy of her face; with small, pearly-white teeth; lips glossy, rosy, and pouting; and the sweetest smile imaginable, playing constantly about them. ‘Well?’ she said. The oranges were of the Syrian variety, small but filled with scarlet honey. The Storm. I spend many delightful hours thinking of the pleasant and beautiful things of life.
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