"He is all alone. 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 reflected upon that with a thrill of terror that was also, somehow, in some faint remote way, gleeful. But there was only Gosse, still struggling with the picture, looking dazedly towards Melusine and the lad he had shot, then away towards the sounds of pursuit, and back again. “And yet you still live, Butterfly.
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