” He quickened, “I never slept with Kate Pfister, you know, and when I confronted her about all the pranks that she and her idiot friends had pulled she denied it all. 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 thought that he was dead. ’ Kimble frowned direfully, staring at the weapon with its gold hilt and decorative pattern down the blade.
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