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

   Waiting alone in the now-familiar confines of Boris’s grass hut, with the feline aroma of fresh mulberry pies wafting in from outside, the frightened girl thought once more of young Sunflower, the one person left who could help her. He was now, according to the letter on the bureau, drinking himself to death in the company of the hateful Patience.
   It was then that came an eerie chill of premonition, and she struggled in vain with her sudden panic. He was here! “Even the crafty Genevieve couldn’t keep me from you, sweetheart!” he intoned simply.
   At that moment there was a much-appreciated break in the formerly-incessant shelling, and as he once again began to woo her with the sensual voice of his Stradivarius, she vowed never again to do anything spiteful, foolish or immature.

We entreat you to read more, if you so desire
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