She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. At once. Now, more and more, we’re going to be interested in them, to be curious about them and—quite mildly-experimental with them. She so wanted to keep her memory of him fresh, so wanted to memorize his kisses and to conjure his embrace someday when he was mere dust in the ground. He lowered himself onto her and entered her slowly, an inch at a time. Had to. No doubt he knew enough of his world to recognise that he stood little chance against the word of a major of militia. "He called me a wanton, Hoddy. That's well. Very slowly, very fearfully, she turned her head. The house was redolent with the smells of cinnamon baking and the stuffed turkey and marinated pork roast. Ann Veronica liked their relationship all the more because it was an unusual one.
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