She could not say to Michelle that the Vorsack house had more than just a little tinge of “bad”. The image in the glass was not clear, for the light was not bright enough to see properly, but the shadows of her riding habit and the hat with its waving plumes framed a countenance that gazed serenely back at her out of long-lashed blue eyes. 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. It was the grand nursery of vice. Then for a time she sat very still. The uproar was tremendous—men yelling— dogs barking,—but above all was heard the stentorian voice of Jonathan, urging them on. Wood, "and I'll take care of Thames. “But, my dear!” said Ann Veronica’s aunt.
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