She was a lovely girl, attired in deep mourning, and having an expression of profound sorrow on her charming features. He took her hand and looked into her eyes and spoke, divided against himself, in a voice that was forced and insincere. But I will never—never return. 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. Spurling, half aside. ‘I find this was excessively clever of Gérard. “Please let me drive you home. “I do hope I have been able to make you understand how I feel, that you don’t consider me a hopeless prig.
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