‘I do not know of whom you speak. I loitered in the shop as you chatted with the butcher’s girl. 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. They were familiar but more massive. If ever I did meet a man I could love, I should love him”—her voice dropped again—“platonically. "Oh, you're here, are you?" said the ruffian, with an exulting laugh: "I've been looking for you everywhere.
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