“You must tell me the truth, please. She climbed on top of him and straddled him, reinserting his penis inside her. Wood, meantime, had not remained idle. He was a good foster dad that had never so much as leered at her, not even once. “Why did you do it?” her aunt urged. The conflict was of short duration; for Shotbolt was no match for his athletic antagonist. You are not unlike Pandora. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation.
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