Lysistrata paced relentlessly in the garden, nervously plucking at leaves. It had been seven months since she had seen her husband, Lycon - since he had left her to go off to war. Seven months of lonely days and empty nights - of aching heart and throbbing loins. Seven months of longing. But now a strange smile played around her lips. Tonight he was coming home...
by Fletcher Flora
by Stuart Palmer, Fletcher Flora
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
by Erskine Childers
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