"Von't you hear me?—ough! ough!" demanded Sharples, after a pause. ‘You do not believe me?’ ‘I do not. Only how had they missed him? Were they imbecile? Or perhaps the mists had concealed him from them. The more she disentangled the lines of her situation the deeper grew her self-disgust. “I think that you are very dense. Well, come back in half an hour. Do you want me, too?” “Yes,” she whispered foolishly, in the throes of rapture. 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.
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