” “There’s Miss Garvice. Ruth?" "Why the devil not? Why do you suppose she married you if she didn't love you? While you read I watched her face. I hid because there was no other way of seeing you. She speedily reached her own abode,—a little cottage, standing in the outskirts of the village. 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. ’ ‘What?’ ‘Neat little toy. Wild," edged in Quilt.
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