The same pale white buttocks, the same freckles in the same unchanging patterns on her collarbone that all of her mother’s potions had never been able to erase. She lunged without warning again, and Gosse, just catching her blade on his own, was obliged to retreat backwards up the little stair. “Gods,” she said, at last, “I’ve done it this time!” “Well!” She took up the neat morocco purse, opened it, and examined the contents.
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