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. You mustn't go dressing up Tom, Dick, and Harry in Henry Esmond's ruffles. He was content to watch her accepting compliments and gaudy bouquets full of red roses, white carnations, and purple statice. She taught me how to crochet and cross stitch. I’m a desperate young woman. How the devil did you break a picture?’ ‘Don’t be obtuse, Hilary.
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