207 She romanced a dark-haired farmer a few times, having long since forgotten his name. “Very well,” she would say, “then I must go. Her husband had caught her leaning over a precipice into the ruins of the oubliette, and had punished her by flogging her back with a switch. ‘Gone!’ he said. But the orchestra had never had a finer hour, and everyone was aware of it. ‘Again?’ Another simple parry.
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