She could smell his cologne underneath his collar, or perhaps his aftershave. Had to. She was almost tempted to tell him, if only to see the cracks of surprise and incredulity break the immobility of his yellow countenance. Few approached the émigrés directly, preferring to stare covertly from behind their fans, while pretending to admire the simple elegance of Lady Bicknacre’s neo-classical refurbishments. There’s that old gentleman at the end of the table—Bullding his name is. "The door's open, and the room empty. “Do not be frightened, dear,” she said.
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