Critically, she stared at her own features. 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. We may be all murdered in this unprotected place, and nobody be the wiser. “What a fool I am!” he muttered, standing up on the hearthrug, and leaning his elbows upon the broad mantelpiece. I was in Lancashire, at our family seat, at the time you mention.
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