‘That little kiss cost him his sanctuary, my girl, and don’t you forget it. Above her head was an aura of white fire. 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. They bickered frequently now as Gianfrancesco protested the prices of things like funeral candles and poultices to comfort the dying.
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