That world of fine printed cambrics and escorted maidens, of delicate secondary meanings and refined allusiveness, presented itself to her imagination with the brightness of a lost paradise, as indeed for many women it is a lost paradise. Rumors had it he had been a looker in his youth, all long hair and chiseled muscles, but those days were long gone. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. Her eyes fell, and then sought his again with timid interest. “Thank you.
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