Gosse took a step or two towards the centre of the room. I shall like to think of it—whenever I feel dull. He's an interpretative genius, if there ever was one. “This stirs one. 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. White——” “No more,” Sydney Courtlaw begged, laughingly.
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