Mark Spain Pure Elegance

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rushy valley where, on a slight rise in the ground, are the stones.
They’re aboutstands absentmindedly adjusting the flowers twined in her hair. It’s been that kind of afternoon.
She knows about the stones. No one ever gets told about the stones. And no one is ever told not to go there, because those who refrain from talking about the stones also know how powerful is the attraction of prohibition. It’s just that going to the stones is not. . . what we do. Especially if we’re nice girls. man-height, and barely thicker than a fat man.And somehow they don’t seem worth it. If there’s a stone circle you mustn’t go near, the imagination suggests, then there should be big brooding trilithons and ancient altar stones screaming with the dark memory of blood-soaked sacrifice. Not these dull stubby lumps.It will turn out that she was running a bit too fast thistime, and in fact the young man in laughing pursuit will getlost and fed up and will eventually wander off back to thetown alone. She does not, at this point, know this, but2(.OR06 ftffO ifi0/£6