. There were lines in her face that age had not put there. His own peculiar genius—a miracle key to the hidden things in men's souls—had given him this immediate and astonishing illumination. 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. ‘Who is to be angry with you now?’ ‘Miss Prudence, that’s who,’ stated Joan bluntly.
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