“He seems like such a nice boy. 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. She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. The fashions of the day have become antiquated. Chapter IV THE TEMPERAMENT OF AN ARTIST “You may sit there and smoke, and look out upon your wonderful Paris,” Anna said lightly.
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