She closed her eyes and felt again an echo of the swamping warmth that had attacked her when his lips met hers. Opposite the gallows was an open gallery, or scaffolding, like the stand at a racecourse, which, on state occasions, was crowded with spectators. Only she was conscious of an unfamiliar and wonderful emotion. A gust of irrational impatience blew through her being. Other times, the Buick was host to intense make-out sessions that lasted until the sun rose. She knew his appetite from many a homemade dinner and knew also that he had taken Bitch Vorsack’s comments to heart. “But if you had?” she said. She came along with the fluttering assurance of some tall ship. And this is not France, you understand.
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