Maggot. 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. Michelle looked at their reflections in the wall mirror. The dress came to her only too manifestly unwashed from its former wearer; even the under-linen they gave her seemed unclean. Gwen—I saw Gwen the other day, and the paint’s thicker than ever.
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