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

   No; the wholly heartbroken River was not pleased. Not at all! Neither the fragrance of a new spring nor the chill gloom of the crypt impressed her, and it was all because he wasn’t there. Intellectually, she realized that the fearless June, the nigh-illicit, foreign, byzantine soldier-lover of her youthful imaginings, had a full life in which he was starring in yet another film with Holly Hershey, and he could not be expected to hold any consideration for the pleasure of one silent, inchoate girl. Intellectually, she knew this. And yet…
   Truly, it had been a most inexplicable day when the gypsy woman had brought him to her attention.
   Just then, the thud of fists, a muffled cry, fighting on the stairway shattered her composure into a million passionate pieces! She struggled in vain with her sudden panic. Surely it could not be — but it was! At the door, the burning, underappreciated and masculine face she had come to know so well! “I love you with a fiery passion which cannot be denied,” he rumbled quietly while he once again began to woo her with the sensual voice of his Stradivarius. “I need you, my Oriental pearl!”
   At that moment as he went down on his knees and implored her to forgive him, she knew that life without him was unthinkable, if not equine, passionate. Wthout him, could she ever have began to wonder how she would explain all this to Billie?

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