She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. It was difficult to get right. “What has he done? “What shall I do. The moisture from the sea was constant, and she spent countless hours staring at the sea from the west tower, the rise and fall of waves. His stories had enchanted her, even if in some deep corner of her heart she guessed they were not entirely true. Usually his charges bored him with their interrogative chatter, for he knew that his information more often than not went into one ear and out of the other.
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