"I don't know what his idea was. ” He got up and went to the guest room door and locked it. She wrapped her legs about his hips as he raised himself upon straight arms, piercing her with his gaze as he thrust into her. Her long incarceration at the convent in Blaye had taught her to be dismissive of her own appearance. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. He had no ideas about daughters.
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