It was an intimate smell, the unmistakable scent of him and another woman. The latter looked very pale, either from the effect of his wound, which was not yet entirely healed, or from suppressed emotion,—partly, perhaps, from both causes,—and wore his left arm in a sling. She would look up, shake her head, and then go back to her reading or crewelwork. Melusine’s eyes shifted. I am the richest man in England.
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