I thought that he was dead. 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. An ugly flush stained his cheeks. She gurgled. Her eyes filled as she thought of him, the image of his laughing countenance coming into her mind, to be swiftly followed by a vision of the blood running from his cut hand. Gianfrancesco took her that night gently, for which she was glad.
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