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. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1. ‘I know,’ said Prudence Sindlesham, sympathy in her tone. She thought of an old abandoned barn that she could inhabit further downriver, but shrugged off the idea in disdain. “A confusion of motives—that’s what I am!.
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