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 now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. As though it was indelicate—it’s just a sort of shyness. "You thank Heaven for the escape of the man who did his best to get your child's neck twisted. " "What do you mean?" asked the female, in astonishment.
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