‘But only think, Hilary,’ Lucy protested, evidently too involved in her theory to waste time in scolding. ‘A thing Marthe told me of,’ Melusine answered, her attention on the garments that were still lying higgledy-piggledy, just as she had left them. The smells of skewered fennel, roast chicken, and broiled pheasant saturated the air, and she could smell other wonderful aromas about them. That’s my advice. "Ah!" he exclaimed, in a tone of anguish.
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