. \" She whispered back. Passing at a glance over the whole of the intervening period; leaving in the words of the poet, —The growth untried Of that wide gap— we shall resume our narrative at the beginning of June, 1715. 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. “Miserable bounder,” he murmured. Moored to the steps, several wherries were dancing in the rushing current, as if impatient of restraint.
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