‘And we shall see which of us is more quick. A dozen books lay upon the counterpane. 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. ” “Where do you go?” “Oh!—Alps. “Touch a hair on his head and you will insure that I will never make love to you again. She read voraciously, and presently, because of her aunt’s censorship, she took to smuggling any books she thought might be prohibited instead of bringing them home openly, and she went to the theatre whenever she could produce an acceptable friend to accompany her. Single pearls— Lord knows where they come from!—are always turning up, some of them of fine lustre; but I never set eyes on them. I think too much about myself.
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