” “Don’t tempt me,” she said, laughing, and drawing her opera-cloak together. It would be protective; it would with age turn to silver unnoticeably. We, ourselves, are scarcely the same we were twelve years ago. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. ” He shook her hands off almost roughly.
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