” His rhythm slowed to a grind. ‘Grace à dieu, he breathes still. Well, they’d got to the pheasants, and in a little while he would smoke. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. What else was there lurked in shadows and deep places; if in some mood of reverie it came out into the light, it was presently overwhelmed and hustled back again into hiding. This won’t do. 1.
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