Spit of your mother. ’ Then she came closer and put her hand on his chest so that it rested on the braid that decorated his scarlet coat. I don’t want to tear at you with hot, rough hands. It had her raven locks, her pouting lips. You truly are your mother’s, Lucia. The next moment his grasp relaxed, and he sank to rise no more. “She is living there now,” she remarked.
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