But the free arm of the stranger hit him a flail-like blow on the chest and sent him sprawling into the yielding sand. Her eyes were perhaps a little brighter than usual, the firelight played about her hair, there seemed to him to be a sudden softening of the straight firm mouth. “No, no, no. 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. Also he is ugly. “He has a stubbly yellow moustache, weak eyes, and great horrid hands.
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