With a cry of triumph, he rose, the sword hilt grasped in his fingers, the point swishing up towards her. ‘And that Suzanne, the sister of my cousin the vicomte, must choose between Monsieur Charvill and her brother. Her husband sat in a chair beside her bed, his head in his hands. 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.
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