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 could hardly speak to me; she insisted relentlessly upon a separation. ‘Do not speak any more for you give yourself pain,’ said Melusine fearfully. There was no mistaking his intentions this time. Then Melusine jumped back into the fencer’s pose, on guard, the point of the wicked blade directed towards her enemy. It had rained during the night, and the patch-work pavement was greasy with mud.
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