“Want to see my fangs?” She asked. That there Frenchie didn’t look any too friendly to me. She could smell his cologne underneath his collar, or perhaps his aftershave. I had gone further than I meant to—with some Englishmen. 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. “John, we should be getting out of here. ‘Ha!’ uttered Captain Roding triumphantly.
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