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. It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. ’ ‘Eh?’ Almost Melusine betrayed herself at his startled look. Jacques is very bad, and I am afraid he may die. I don’t play anything. She took the piece of paper and unfolded it in the safety of her lap.
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