McClintock did not exaggerate his ability to read faces. She had hardly noticed the loss of her dagger, so strong had been the waves of relief that attacked her on hearing that Jack had returned from death’s door. “I doubted my luck, at least. 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. She had looked forward to an explanation. "As it's getting late, and the porter may be gone to bed," he observed; "I'll take the pass-key, and let myself in.
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