” 129 She smiled wider. She breathed into a cloth soaked in rose oil as Sebastian had prescribed, but the smell of roses mixed obscenely with the smell of death and decay, causing her to retch. She looked at him confusedly, his black hair glinting under the dim lights. She glanced into her companion’s face, and she saw there strange things. Daughters were not like sons. ‘Oh, famous. I hated the stuff. ’ ‘But you must,’ Gerald said, quite as if he meant it. The commissionaire stood there, tall and imperturbable. He understood. ’ ‘You would speak of the house?’ ‘Many’s the time little Miss Mary would say her papa meant for her to have it, she having no brothers and sisters at all—when we played together I mean, she and me and Joan Pottiswick. CHAPTER XX. ” Annabel shrugged her shoulders.
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