There is an innocent, a purely sociable, an even routine way of raising the question of children. At the moment when I pronounce the first word, the word
So, my curiosity could not be more innocent. But in between
So and the second word
you the devil waylays me, sends me an image of this Anya on a sweaty summer night, convulsed in the arms of ginger-haired, freckle-shouldered Alan, opening her womb in gladness to the gush of his male juices.
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