“Girls of sixteen do not need their own laundry hampers. His voice now had lost its ironies. There was more shouting. We were fellow passengers from Charing Cross, and we have been fellow lodgers in the Rue d’Entrepot. 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. Diane Vorsack clicked her tongue in a “tsk”.
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