. 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. The distinction lay chiefly in the right to pat their heads. ‘Yes, that is what the nuns they said of me. He’s dead. The captain saw it too and nodded at the boy. Earles,” she exclaimed. ‘Sleeping like a baby, he is.
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