Mrs. She would be enduing this chap with attributes he did not possess, clothing him in fictional ruffles. She had eaten them, murdered them routinely, and yet he loved her still. "Mercy on us!" cried he, as a thrill of apprehension ran through his frame. A corner could hold the promise of a shelf of dainty crystals, volcanic ices of rainbow colors, or figurines of saints sculpted from horn and bone reenacting their martyrdoms on delicate miniature wooden stages.
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