It was owing to the untimely end of this poor fellow that Mrs. Standing on tiptoe, on a joint-stool, placed upon the bench, with his back to the door, and a clasp-knife in his hand, this youngster, instead of executing his appointed task, was occupied in carving his name upon a beam, overhead. 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. I thought every one had heard about it. The individual twist was always there, even in the cleverest forgeries.
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