" "What should I tempt you to?" asked Blueskin, in surprise. She stood 218 there, broken bottle still in hand. Warm life was behind that always, even if it slept. In the floor were set four ring-bolts, about nine feet apart. 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. She controlled herself, and answered meekly, “No. ‘Not where we’re going.
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