“This isn’t furtive,” said Ann Veronica. The Wastrel wiped the blood from his forehead. 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. Marry, come up! I'll show him what an injured wife can do. You are welcome to proclaim yourself ‘Alcide’ if you will. He lowered himself onto her and entered her slowly, an inch at a time. The moment they cease to be serviceable, or become dangerous he lodges an information, and the matter's settled. It was just a shabby, stupid, furtive business that began between us.
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