She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone. There was a deep groan, and the sound of a fall within. “You cannot say that you did not expect me,” he answered. 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. ’ ‘Quite right, Gerald,’ approved Lucilla.
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