Xingu, as he so rashly called himself, was the youngest son of a powerful king, but he had grown weary of rich attire and banquets and tournaments and the available princesses of his own realm, and yearned to find in a far land the maiden of his dreams.
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Wickedly scheming, he would limp and cackle through the cold corridors of the castle, planning new impossible feats for the suitors of Saralinda to perform.
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She moved across the room like wind in violets, and her laughter sparkled on the air, which, from her presence, gained a faint and undreamed fragrance.
The Princess Saralinda was tall, with freesias in her dark hair, and she wore serenity brightly like a rainbow. It was not easy to tell her mouth from the rose, or her brow from the white lilac.
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She's not my niece, the lame man sneered. Stole her from a king. He showed his lower teeth. We all have flaws, he said, and mine is being wicked.
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