" "Wrong? What the devil could be wrong?" McClintock had demanded, irascibly. “Nothing was ever done,” Miss Brett asserted, “without a certain element of Faith. 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. ’ ‘That is not your affair. She went to market every day to fetch the daily bread and more herbs for more medicines and potions, plus treats for the apprentices made of honey and almond paste. "But you do agitate me so much.
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