Madame Valade was that kind of woman. With an open hand, he slapped her face. "You begin to have doubts, eh? A handful of money between you, and nothing else. 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. White Sears special-order orthopedic shoes, polyester pants, and cotton print blouses were her usual weekend attire.
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