The reward is mine. Dear me, what a nuisance it is to have a pseudo husband shot down upon one from the skies. 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. Threw it out. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. , or that she had a care in the world.
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