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. "I'll now pay the debt I owe you," cried Jack, tightening his grip till the thieftaker blackened in the face. We can’t afford to turn our women, our Madonnas, our Saint Catherines, our Mona Lisas, our goddesses and angels and fairy princesses, into a sort of man.
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