The smells of skewered fennel, roast chicken, and broiled pheasant saturated the air, and she could smell other wonderful aromas about them. "The Chevalier shall hear of this," whispered the woollen-draper. Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming. ‘Did you sigh and flutter your eyelashes?’ ‘Certainly I did. Warren’s Profession.
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