White. “Nor am I now,” he answered. ‘Étes-vous Francais?’ Her eyes, he noted, followed from himself to Hilary and back again, but she did not speak. 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. Things that you and the nuns would not think about for—’ She stopped, biting back the words “for a young girl”.
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