Nevertheless, Sir John had the look of a man who was enjoying himself. Not MY affair. Rain started to pummel the roof of the pavilion, which coalesced into sheets and rumbled to the cement below. His movements became quicker, and she made grinding motions with her hips that began to please her as well. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. Its importance had vanished with her abandonment of compromise. It hit her just above the knee.
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