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. Mentally but not physically competent. A fortnight passed, then a month. “Of course,” said Miss Miniver—she went on in a regularly undulating voice —“we DO please men. “Well, I don’t know,” she said thoughtfully. There one is! The same stuff still! One has a craving in one’s blood, a craving roused, cut off from its redeeming and guiding emotional side.
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