It was supposed he was drowned in crossing the river, as his body had never been found. There was a new softness in her eyes, a hesitation, a timidity about her manner which was almost pathetic. 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. She doesn't love you; she hasn't the least idea what it means beyond what she has read in novels.
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