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. He had brought the shrubs down from Syria, and, strangely enough, they had prospered. But that instinct is severely dampened most of the time. "No Mohocks! No Scourers!" cried the mob. ‘I know you, Gerald. You truly are your mother’s, Lucia.
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