’ ‘Do you take me for a fool, Hilary?’ demanded his betrothed. He dodged the boot this time, and smashed his left upon the Wastrel's lips, leaving them bloody pulp. “I am developing ailments,” she said, meeting his questioning eyes. 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.
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