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. And this damning evidence―’ with a brusque gesture at the portrait ‘―must also be destroyed. One could go to him and tell him one loved him. “Umph!” he said, and regarded his letter doubtfully before consigning it to the pillar-box.
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