She fell asleep instantaneously, fatigued from weeks of exhaustion. There is no further hope. 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. "If I am the devil," observed Wild, "as some folks assert, and I myself am not unwilling to believe, you'll find that I differ from the generally-received notions of the arch-fiend, and faithfully execute the commands of those who confide their souls to my custody. “The young women of Jane Austen’s time didn’t get into this sort of scrape! At least—one thinks so.
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