Her softly intertwined fingers became rigid. But this was but a momentary gleam of personal application, and at this time she followed it up no further. The smells of skewered fennel, roast chicken, and broiled pheasant saturated the air, and she could smell other wonderful aromas about them. “You remember the man in Paris who used to follow me about—Meysey Hill they called him?” He nodded.
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