It was a gracious gesture, she thought, as he trudged to the Beck’s humble doorstep in his stiff blue polyester uniform. 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. " "Very well," replied Thames, about to depart. The night had swallowed him up, but his work on her was done. Pearls too! I mean it. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. “You’re not interested in politics?” he asked, almost with a note of protest.
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