The sound of the stream was soothing, almost hypnotic, as he lay awake in the room above the millrace. The moon was shining through the window; having wanted the moonlight he had not drawn the curtains. For years he had dreamt of this, to have a quiet secluded place, away from street lights and roads and signs of man, or modern man at least.

He had fallen in love with the house, a converted water mill, the moment he had stepped out of the car on that first visit to look at the property. There was something wonderful about having one’s own stream, and once he realised that it actually ran underneath the house he knew that he had to buy it.

Elsa would have loved it too, he reflected. She had loved the sound of running water. Suddenly he could imagine her there, sitting on the edge of the bed, looking into his eyes, naked in the moonlight. She had always loved the moonlight. Whenever the opportunity had arisen to moonbathe, as she called it, she had taken incredible delight in lying naked the shafts of moonbeams.

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