“Please don’t be sad. " "Halloo, Nab!" vociferated Quilt. 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. “To my chagrin, I have. ” “Why on earth—? A man ought to be labelled. “The young women of Jane Austen’s time didn’t get into this sort of scrape! At least—one thinks so. ‘Quite mad, nuns are.
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