He devoured her with his eyes too, his shyness not able to disguise his furtive glances at the curvy outline of her breast against the imitation silk, his memory still exquisitely tortured by her movements in the miniskirt. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. Perhaps at the first blush—it strikes you as odd. 83 She stared at his crazily erect penis, mentally comparing it to Gianfrancesco’s. “Perhaps one talks nonsense about a woman’s instinct,” she said.
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