"His life—or yours?" "No one shall harm you more, my dear," cried Lady Trafford. Sindlesham tried. As she came close, he took a pace forward and seized her from behind, one strong arm clamping her tight against his chest, the free hand seizing her about the mouth, stifling the cry that gurgled in her throat. It was the first expression of the mother's blood. 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.
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