” He ruminated for a minute. 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. The emerald wings, slashed with scarlet and yellow, wheeling and swooping about her head, there among the wild plantain. The burden of decision had been transferred. Her eyes glistened in the darkness—for light was only admitted through a small grated window—like flames, and, as she fixed them on him, their glances seemed to penetrate his very soul.
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