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. I don’t want you to be sad. ‘You do not understand, Gérard. And all the talk of the Miniver people and the Widgett people seemed always to be like a ship in adverse weather on the lee shore of love. In the grate were some charred fragments of a marriage certificate. You can come back for these, for you’ll carry him to the gatehouse, that’s what you’ll do.
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