It was an intimate smell, the unmistakable scent of him and another woman. As she hoisted her skirts near her waist, she thought ruefully of the last time she had worn such an elaborate gown, sometime near 1910 when petticoats were still considered hip everyday garb. “We played at love-making in Paris. She sat, crouched together, by the corner of the hearthrug under the bookcase that supported the pig’s skull, and looked into the fire and up at Ann Veronica’s face, and let herself go. "Who's there?" cried Rachel. Fortescue?” “At your service. "There's his knock. One hour later she had gone back to the mission—without the salt.
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