" "Is Mr. 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. " "Take time to consider of it," replied Wood sulkily, "there's no hurry. She wrapped her legs about his hips as he raised himself upon straight arms, piercing her with his gaze as he thrust into her. Paris looms behind—a tragedy of strange recollections—here she emerges Phœnix-like, subtly developed, a flawless woman, beautiful, self-reliant, witty, a woman with the strange gift of making all others beside her seem plain or vulgar. My will never faltered. Remember that he’s not at all a bad sort, and to speak frankly, he’s your salvation.
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