Her pat answer to all inquiries was, “I let my sister Shari make me over,” while she kept from staring at her own reflection in the shiny shoes past her bare knees. You understand me, Charcoal. 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. If I were a clean, free man—We’ll have to talk of all these things. Gosse was backing towards the table. ’ ‘And do not say you made a mull.
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