She stole a few glances at John as she stood and played the pieces. Everything, Miss Miniver said, was “working up,” everything was “coming on”—the Higher Thought, the Simple Life, Socialism, Humanitarianism, it was all the same really. I mystify you; I can see that. 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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