The baby crawled towards them, seeking their blood. Her acrid rose perfume oil that hung in the air that smelled like a head shop, her V. “You might at least,” she murmured, “have invented a more romantic reason. You hurt the child. The young rascal had learnt from some of the women-servants that Lady Trafford was from home, and was in the very act of making off when I got down stairs. Jonathan, however, still lingered.
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