So this was what it was all about. Love was joy, and joyous she was when alone. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. “Since last night. She cried out in pain, then in pleasure as he thrust himself into her. Wood's dwelling,—a plain, substantial, commodious farm-house. Martha was quite right.
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