There was a certain air of forced fortuity in his manner. I knew it. He stooped to recover it, and his face was hidden. The air was sweet with the smoky perfume of myrrh, hazy and dense with incense. ‘French? But what else?’ ‘I do not like Frenchmen,’ Melusine snapped. “Curious case,” said Ogilvy, buttering his bread and cutting it up in a way he had.
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