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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. “Why could you not confide in us?” “Do what?” said Ann Veronica. Without a word or a gesture, the Wastrel turned and staggered forth, out of the orbit of these two, having been thrust into it for a single purpose already described. He would make her rub her lips with waxes and other ointments, precursors of lipsticks. Never! Perhaps some day, quite soon, she might regret that breakfast-room. ToC Just as St.
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