Mr. Drummond was telling me about the way old Ferringhall rounded upon them all at the club. She went to market every day to fetch the daily bread and more herbs for more medicines and potions, plus treats for the apprentices made of honey and almond paste. She hadn't measured up; she had been stupid; she hadn't known how to make love. They’re just a joyous softening of the outline—more beautiful than perfection. She should have slapped him but she was in shock at her own thoughts of lust that arose. For all the enervating heat, he applied himself vigorously to his tasks. He was just as much a greater master than any other I ever saw, as he was a greater judge of time and measure.
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