“What’s wrong with having witchcraft books? Is she afraid that the Princeton Hill villagers will burn you at stake?” Lucy asked sarcastically. “I do mean that,” she declared. Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. A town called Foster. I should think, Anna, that your own sense—er—of propriety would enable you to see this. But I liked to say it. Presently he became filled with astonishment over the singular fact that Ruth was eluding him in fancy as well as in reality.
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