Her motherly features creased into anxious wrinkles. ” “Did it come—in Paris?” “I do not know,” he answered. More strange stories were told of it than of any other house in London. ‘That is the man who tries to kill me, but he wounded instead my servant. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. ‘She’s perfectly right. “She found my collection of witchcraft books under my bed and threw them away.
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