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. Its importance had vanished with her abandonment of compromise. If Winifred remained silent, her looks would have disarmed a person of less assurance than the woollen-draper. But anything is better than this. But most of all, I wanted to love.
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