You can have no shecrets from me. 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. But you must not imagine me wrapped in melancholy. ‘And I’ll say it as often as I choose, you confounded impertinent wench! Who do you think you’re talking to? I’m your grandfather, girl. There is a tragedy to come. It was if the world had blinked out for a moment.
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