Jonathan smiled contemptuously. She patted John's head with her palm, its surface appealingly fuzzy. He conveyed not only his sense of the extreme want of correctitude in their unsanctioned meetings, but also that, so far as he was concerned, this irregularity mattered not at all, that he had flung—and kept on flinging—such considerations to the wind. “But that’s quite different,” replied Anna. Through her door curtain she could see the light from the study lamp. She had Cathy’s predisposition to overweight and her hips were solid and thick under her jeans. 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.
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