But it wasn’t the harassment that bothered her. He confided to me that he felt trapped in his marriage, that he was being ruined by fate. She had found the mausoleum underneath a broken monument. Their idea of maidenly innocence was just a blank white—the sort of flat white that doesn’t shine. It was the same smell that she had in his memory, but now it was definite, palpable, like a perfume. “Drive to 13, Montague Street, cabman,” she ordered. ’ Captain Roding grinned.
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