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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. And yet—you millionaires should really, I think, cultivate the art of discrimination. Do you think I forget it? Didn't they help themselves to all the plate and the money —to several of my best dresses, and amongst others, to my favourite kincob gown; and I've never been able to get another like it! Marry, come up! I'd hang 'em all, if I could. “My dear,” she said, when she could get her breath, “you must come home at once. “Me and my bright ideas.
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