"I say," retorted Edgeworth Bess, with a very unfeminine imprecation, "I shan't stand any more of that nonsense. Her softly intertwined fingers became rigid. 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. CHAPTER IX. ‘You know perfectly well that she is the daughter of the Comtesse de St Erme.
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