‘I am not a person, Marthe. 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. “You wouldn’t. “One hardly knows—all the time. There were menacing possibilities; the thought of them set him a-tremble. ‘Think I’m fool enough to do my business in a convent?’ he said scornfully. They were sitting alone, Lucy. Grace, confidence, the power of movement even, seemed gone from her.
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