“I am sure,” she said, “that you mean to stay until you are turned out. If a cart were coming, or those labourers in the field had heard, escape was impossible. 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. Every one of those four stories would be accepted. I guess. Hitherto you’ve seen only my easy, kindly side. "Iss, Massa.
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