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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. "Your uncle must protect you. But he was destined to have every tide of feeling awakened—every wound opened. ‘But it is not on the horse at all, Jacques. ” “Did it come—in Paris?” “I do not know,” he answered. Still, here we are in this dingy, foggy city.
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