But if I were dying of thirst, in a desert, I would not accept a cup of water at her hands. I don’t care! I’m glad I did. 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. Earles said, with a resigned sigh, “but I shall rely upon you to stick to me so long as I do the right thing by you. Just then—I was nervous.
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