’ Her lashes fluttered. 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. The poor fellow's half smothered. But two weeks later he returned. My foster mother, Janine, wasn’t much fatter. What a pity! But why? There was no way over this puzzle, nor under it, nor around it: that men should drink, knowing the inevitable payment. Endless complications ensue when both sisters return to London.
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