She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. No sooner had they entered the room than Sharples, who waited to usher them in, hastily retreated, closed the door, and turning the key, laughed loudly at the success of his stratagem. Something seemed to dredge up from the recesses of her memory and she brightened. There was question in Gerald’s gaze as it met hers, and apology in his voice. Wood. . Mr. Let’s go on climbing now. ’ ‘You didn’t care. Indeed it was apparent, from the likeness between them, that they were nearly related. White.
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