She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. He awoke, strangely content. Then blackness. ‘He is not in England, you understand. “The very question, my dear sister,” she said, “tells me that I have succeeded. You have taken upon your shoulders the burden of her misdeeds. He grew more ardent, sliding her breasts out of the strapless bodice of her gown. Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. He guided her hand to his crotch, which had already grown in size. Her brother Roddy, who was in the motor line, came to expostulate; her sister Alice wrote. Nothing anyone could say or do would change him.
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