“She is living there now,” she remarked. ’ ‘Begging your pardon, miss, but I think as how you ought to go back to London,’ Jack ventured. She slipped on white thin-soled tennis shoes with no socks, her ankles exposed as Shari had once suggested they be worn. 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.
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