She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. Every other wall comprised bookcases, except where the doors appeared. Why do women take to lies and deceit and trickery as naturally as a duck to water?” “You are not alluding, I hope, to Miss Pellissier?” Ennison said stiffly. He had not addressed to her even the most ordinary courtesy of fellow travellers; she doubted that he was even aware of her existence. Every house-top, every window, every wall, every projection, had its occupants.
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