If on a winter's night a traveler

tumbles into the arms of a woman, reclining on a bed of purest down, luxuriating in the poetry of an Italian master; he entices her to enter his network of stories that enlace . . . she nears the end . . . discovers the final move -- a cheeky and surprisingly linear one-liner . . . this woman, blindsided, she didn't see it coming and feels foolishly naive.

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