She nibbled at his neck gently, sweetly, as her hand tracing his chest. 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. " "Never," said Mrs. ” She paused. Some of my schemes are already in hand. Marry me. And through it all, like a golden thread on a piece of tapestry, weaving in and out of the patterns, the unspoken longing for love.
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