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All right! I’m off. Of what was she thinking? She must rescue herself. 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. Then abruptly Mr. She was dressed in a simple evening gown of soft creamy silk, with a yoke of dark old embroidery that enhanced the gentle gravity of her style, and her black hair flowed off her open forehead to pass under the control of a simple ribbon of silver. She mentioned, with familiar respect, Christ and Buddha and Shelley and Nietzsche and Plato.
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