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. A white house that she often found charming loomed gray and ashen, its gardens shorn for the coming winter. ‘Let me see if our minds are attuned. She could neither speak nor move nor cry out. “Will you come round to the hospital?” he asked.
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