In the guttering light of cheap, half length candles and the remains of a coal fire in the grate you gently undress her...

In order to remind us that none of us will ever have a qt fragile and adorable Emily Brontë gf

>By the fourth day of my commission I was certain that Messrs. Hudson and Barlow of the Midland Railway had played a sort of trick on me. England had at that time, and likely still does possess, a surfeit of skilled surveyors. Why engage a German and send him here if not only to have a laugh at his expense when he returns limping to York, his equipment in shambles? The land assigned to me was rude, nearly treeless, and to my mind hateful. The English love it, I know, but to a man that has known the Alps it is nothing of note. This aspect seeped into its people, for, in the way a Bavarian farmer is as hospitable and ever-smiling behind his pipe as his cool, sunlit valley home would suggest the men of this country, not all England, I caution, but the land encompassed by my commission were almost universally suspicious, impolite, scheming and poor. The reader must understand that this was my mood as I bundled my theodolite, ropes, and books across that sour land. I know you are not reading to receive my impressions but as I have your interest I will take some advantage. It was on this day that my frustration had reached its zenith and I began to take greater time for leisure, slowing my pace considerably. I had with me some cigars, purchased in Hamburg nearly fresh from the importer, and wished to enjoy one. This little mission was nearly impossible however, in that barren country. The wind would kill the match before it could even approach its target, often at the instant it was struck. It would be necessary, I resolved, to find some sheltered area. A copse of trees was out of the question, and the low places in the moors, though somewhat suitable, were thick with mud and, as I found to the detriment of my boots, hidden depressions.

based and virtuepilled

>I identified a small cluster of boulders that seemed a likely spot and proceeded there. On arrival I came across what at first struck me as the aftermath of some crime or tragedy. A girl, who I will say looked quite young, despite what I now know, sat slumped against a stone, which only cradled her head, leaving the rest of her on the wet heather. She was dressed in mourning save for a threadbare shawl that was nearly the same shade of green as the country. Her lower quarter was as muddied as mine and there was some dirt about her face and neck. So pale was she, and so unwilling was I to touch her, that it took me a some time to convince myself through observation that she was alive. That done I did not know how to proceed, had this been France or the fairer parts of England I would have woken her at once, but in this place, with its women, I feared I would reach out my hand and have it bitten off. I dithered and finally succeeded in lighting a cigar. As I was resolving to make for a town and inquire if anyone was missing a wife or daughter she stirred. Opening her eyes, she lighted on my equipment, resting a few paces in front of her, frowned and then, following the smoke I am sure, on myself standing near enough her but to decidedly to one side at a polite distance. It had not seemed prudent to stand over her, the image would not have been a becoming one, for me at least, had some shepherd come along.

>The conversation that proceeded, the object of so much purported interest, I will record as best as my memory will allow but I caution you that some thirty have years have passed. I wanted, of course, to ask her how she had come to be so far from civilization and what help she required, but could not, at least at first. Instead I gabbled “Good afternoon, miss.”
She stared at me with growing and, now that they were open, very tired eyes that bore – and this is unmistakable to a man with daughters – the hallmarks of recent weeping.
For the tragic reason known to you all, she spoke with a soft and stifled voice. “Are you lost, then, sir?” There was disdain in those words, they were heavy with it. I was to her an interloper, in her privacy and country. For this reason, I must admit, my response was short. “It is my business,” I said, indicating my equipment, “to know just where I am.”
It was quite difficult for to her rise, her breath hitched, and she had to pause halfway through the action. I offered my hand which was coldly ignored. Finally standing she adjusted her shawl, continuing to tug in nervous agitation at one corner that, by its wear, seemed to have suffered such attention many times before. When she spoke again, to my complete and I am sure visible astonishment, she did so in German. It was not a particularly literate or well accented German, but it was German and quite understandable.
“And what is your business, sir?” she inquired.
I told her I was a surveyor for the Midland Railway, dispatched from York. This seemed to put her at greater ease and she regarded my equipment again, very studiously. I thought to ask her where she learned to speak German, adding ‘speak it so well by’ way of flattery. Still looking over my theodolite, only half-turning to me, she replied “Goethe” quite flatly.

It only disgusts me to consider such a vile debasement of an imagined paragon of virtue that is all too rare in this age, and possibly across all ages.

Is this a one-time Yea Forums exclusive? Would read more desu

no it's not, he's copying it from this bro
docdroid.net/4kfO14N/a-german-surveyor.pdf

Friendly reminder that she was an ardent Tory and would have voted leave.

Thanks. That’s pretty fascinating.

Whatevs, bruh. Gimme dem dank azz feets and then gimme dem stank azz under-tiddies and we good.

>The wind off the moors batters against the parsonage and you hear her father's footsteps in the hall downstairs.
Whew this is very lewd, so she brought an almohad/almoravid home so he could fart on her for some fetishism play. Good post OP.

This interpretation says nothing about the OP and everything about the howling depravity of your soul.

>post-marital coitus
Why would you wait to have sex until after your partner dies? Are you some sick necrophiliac?