For your reading pleasure, Tempest presents yet another exquisite example of romantic narrative…

Illicit, Seductive Seasons
by Veronica Heinlein

   Waiting alone in the study, by the fiercely-staring portrait she so loathed, with the romantic fragrance of a new spring wafting in from outside, June — she who had always seemed so cold! — thought once more of Beth-Irving Lexington, the only man she had ever really loved. He was now, according to the best salon gossip, prospecting for silver in the Andes.
   Just then, came a sudden clatter of hooves, and she instinctively checked her fingernails. He was here! “I was a cad, a complete and utter fool! I can’t hope that you’ll ever be able to forgive me — but if you do not, I must die, you little fool!” he said.
   Only in this moment of extremity could it have happened that the band began to play, and as he dabbed at her tears with the handkerchief she herself had made for him, she knew that at last he was hers — and that only death could part them.

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