You see, the horse it does not belong to me, nor to the nuns. If she had any idea at all, it was something she dimly recalled from her books: something celestially beautiful, with a happy ending. ” He contradicted himself by plunging into an exposition of motifs. 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. All along the wooden benches before it sat a profusion of soldiery, a collection of barbers in attendance, busily employed in replaiting and powdering their hair ready for a military review scheduled for this afternoon. Like a petulant child he snapped.
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