Not with the unavoidable explanations, and the need to secrete the sword and hide it before returning the priest’s horse to its stable—which had been her excuse for running from Martha’s protestations. He was waiting in the outer hall as she tiptoed in. He “went in” for microscopy in the unphilosophical Victorian manner as his “hobby. His body went limp, and as he withdrew she ironically found herself at the doorway for the first time in her life of being truly aroused. She was aware of it now as if it were a voice shouting outside a house, shouting passionate verities in a hot sunlight, a voice that cries while people talk insincerely in a darkened room and pretend not to hear. "You can shave him, you know.
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