. I am no one, Gérard. Always as black and bitter as gall. 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. I’ve loved her for two years, I love her now. But that title he would not endure. Her father held some printed document in his hand, and appeared not to observe her entry. I’ll go after them and kill him.
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