“Stuffy these trees make the Avenue,” said Mr. Montressor’s guests. She winced as he thrust the fact at her, was about to answer, and checked herself. 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. She could tell that they too would find their legs jutting awkwardly from the petite furniture. Why shouldn’t we be martyrs? There’s nothing else for most of us, anyhow. “Hey you,” he said affectionately. "The men. "Bolt the wicket!" shouted Ireton, who, with the others, had been not a little entertained by the gallant turnkey's discomfiture. . ‘What’s more,’ went on Martha, ‘I knew something Mr Charvill didn’t, or he wouldn’t so readily have left it behind him. She did not remember him, but he said that he had introduced himself to her when she was visiting the butcher's family.
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