Wood. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. “Heavens!” exclaimed Ann Veronica, with extraordinary passion. And when you reflect how much at heart your poor mother, whose loss we must ever deplore, had our union, you will, I am persuaded, no longer refuse me. The vicomte has, he say, enough femmes in his hands. Her glasses moved quickly as her glance travelled from face to face. There will be long stretches of idleness, heat, and enervation; and always the odour of drying coconut.
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