The Boy Who Never Breaks a Promise

George Washington, twelve years of age lay in his bed, a four-poster which had been made as all beds were back then, by hand. Was it weird? Would he'd been imagining? Their neighbor, Mrs. Betsy Alcott, and that form-fitting bodice reaching over to take off his tricorn hat? No, if a person felt something it was, by definition, normal. If he found himself touching himself while imagining the slender Mrs. Alcott bringing her quill pen absentmindedly to her full lips, no doubt other little boys in other times than places had felt inclined to touch themselves while imagining similar things. Therefore it was fine what he was doing