Drawing a pistol, and unclosing his lantern with the quickness of thought, he then burst through an open trap-door into a small loft. Mind, I, Baptist Kettleby, say so. 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. But after a time I learned the ways of the parrakeets, and they would come down to me like doves in the stories. He would get her to come to tea with him, usually in a pleasant tea-room over a fruit-shop in Tottenham Court Road, and he would discuss his own point of view and hint at a thousand devotions were she but to command him. “I think,” he said, “I was a little too mystical about beauty the other day.
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