A little inn flying a Swiss flag nestles under a great rock, and there they put aside their knapsacks and lunched and rested in the mid-day shadow of the gorge and the scent of resin. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. I thought Mr. He initiated sex with her, lightly fingering her clitoris as an invitation. And though I say it that shouldn't say it, no man can tie a better knot.
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