A long shrill cat-call in the gallery seemed to be the signal. Gerald kicked the panelled wall in frustration. "I'm not particular about rooms. 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. ‘Well she does,’ insisted Miss Froxfield impenitently, and turned to Gerald. ” “I could have said more.
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