Oh, and only look at those stains,’ cried Miss Froxfield, gesturing at the blood on the ruffles to the sleeves of Melusine’s riding-habit, and on the chemise she wore under it. The rejection caught him like a slap in the face. From the opposite corner under the trees a man with his hat slouched over his eyes stood and glowered at them. 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. .
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