She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. “I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. “If you wish,” he said, “I will go there in the morning and see what can be done for him. He glanced at the ruins of his High Priestess. But I give you this warning, and let it sink in.
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