"Confusion! the rascal must have picked my pocket of your letters," whispered Kneebone, "What's to be done?" "What's to be done! Why, I'm undone! How imprudent in you not to burn them. She would often steal away to tryst with him in the orchard, even now she felt her loins grow warm with the memory of his ardor. Men ought not to idealize any woman. Let him be sure.
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