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 tell you that I love you, Anna, and I believe that you love me. That would be an unkind twist of fate. “You were never born,” he declared, “to follow the well worn roads. ” He plunged into one of his drawers, and brought up a small gold-foiled bottle. A bobbing lantern, crossing the bridge—for she had not drawn the curtain—attracted her attention.
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