“His love-making,” she remarked, “struck me as unconvincing. She untucked his starched shirt, running her hands along his smooth torso and underneath his arms. He turned irresolutely to the table upon which lay the scattered leaves of his old manuscripts. Contests were held every year, the type of which depended on her caprice. She was quivering with the sense of Capes at her side and glowing with heroic love; it seemed to her that if they put their hands jointly against the Alps and pushed they would be able to push them aside.
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