If he had nothing to tell her, she had nothing to ask. 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. The dress came to her only too manifestly unwashed from its former wearer; even the under-linen they gave her seemed unclean. Then she reverted to the trousers. Suddenly all this makes you human. Wood.
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