Anticipating this, Wild avoided the shot by suddenly, ducking his head. She started at the falling of a leaf, at the lumbering of a cow through the hedge. Sometimes—a lonely forlorn child—she had gone to him and put her arms around his neck. Because their human lives were so short, the happily married had no time to get sick of one another. She unlaced his pants and slid them down his hips, examining him as he stood before her naked. She lunged without warning again, and Gosse, just catching her blade on his own, was obliged to retreat backwards up the little stair. They might applaud, or object, or interfere, but the drama was her very own. “This is all rot!” he declared angrily. His glance came up again and met hers. Kneebone helped to the pigeon-pie; while Thames unwired and uncorked a bottle of stout Carnarvonshire ale.
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