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. There was a look in her eyes which puzzled him. "Now your curiosity's satisfied, child," continued Kneebone, "perhaps, you'll attend to my orders. For this three weeks had been the hardest of her life. ’ He looked the girl up and down. Did she suppose him a possible pretender to her daughter’s hand? The girl—Dorothée, if memory served—was clearly marriageable, but he imagined most of these unhappy exiles were all but penniless.
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