They were a dull grey, but the dark frizzed hair that framed her face was attractive. It’s no good. The honey on his tongue turned to ashes. “Were you ever in love, aunt?” she asked. And for twelve years he has been so; until his long security, well-nigh obliterating remembrance of the deed, has bred almost a sense of innocence within his breast. She tried gentle words with him, beguiling perfumes, even slipped aphrodisiac tisanes into his soup.
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