She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. “I could not have stayed in Paris and waited for news. And don’t tell me what you’ve been up to, dashing off to Remenham House with that Kimble lad, and Lord knows what besides, because I don’t want to know. “I think,” he said, “that you have found the real home of the lotus-eaters. “Yes. ‘Eh bien?’ She thrust again, from the same place. " "A child!" thought Wood; it must be the fugitive Darrell. The world into which she was so boldly venturing was going to be wonderful, but never so wonderful as the world within these paper covers.
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