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. Loneliness. Instead, he could not get beyond these minor details—why she wore the dress, whence she had come, and whither she was bound. ” He stated, trying to maintain his calm. Her thin fingers were armed with nails as long as the talons of a bird. “I can’t endure it,” she said. “That’s. I am grateful, indeed I am. “Just leave them with me for now, Clotilde.
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