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 shook her fist ceilingward. If one wants a thing very much, perhaps one is inclined to think one can’t have it. They are our food, Lucia, nothing more. " With no little effort—for the right words had a way of tumbling back out of reach—he marshalled his phrases, and as he uttered them, closed his eyes to lessen the possibility of a break. She did not answer him, as she did not know what to say. Mike chimed in. ‘It must be painful.
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