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. Maybe the girl was telling the truth, and then again, maybe she wasn't. Still, I am curious. Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. In the periphery of her vision, she saw the door pulled back. ” The redness in his face betrayed him. I sent a message straight. "Begone, wretch!" cried the mother, stung beyond endurance by his taunts; "or I will drive you hence with my curses. But about his unknown rival he was acutely curious.
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