We, ourselves, are scarcely the same we were twelve years ago. The glass in the windows was broken—the roof unthatched—the walls dilapidated. She loved to be there, taking part in it all, breathing it, being it. She tried gentle words with him, beguiling perfumes, even slipped aphrodisiac tisanes into his soup. He had chosen his time well. And the fences are down for good. Hey.
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