She moved towards it slowly and picked it up, holding it out in front of her whilst the familiar perfume seemed to assert itself with damning insistence. "The Wastrel seemed to take it all right. And if he didn’t, what was the good of seeing him? “I wish he was a woman,” she said, “then I could make him my friend. It was in the quiet streets and squares toward Oxford Street that it first came into her head disagreeably that she herself was being followed.
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