‘Jacques, do not die while I am gone. But I'll take care of her bill, if worst comes to worst. But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. 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. He had not bothered to take off his raincoat and his umbrella sat dripping on his modern ice cube of a table.
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