Something with iron resolve the father had kept hidden all these years in the lonely citadel of his heart. She directed him to an old part of the highway, a featureless stretch of old farmhouses capped in snow, with the occasional working silo. “I’m not the Devil. To perdition with them all. 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.
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