"My janizaries are within call," returned Wild. Why did I not realise it at once? It just shows how one should not judge by appearances. The honey on his tongue turned to ashes. She was an Egyptian, from the magical times. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. It was his heart. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story.
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