She had a bittersweet fragrance, like dusty books and honeysuckle. Silk. “What’s the objection?” “I suppose she ought to know?” said Gwen to her mother, trying to alter the key of the conversation. In a moment or two, Madame Valade recovered her sangfroid. It’s a thing I’ve unaccountably overlooked. So, when I tell you she loves you, I know.
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