“Indeed,” she said, “I would not. “What ought she to do?” “Suppose you—” “Yes, suppose I—” He felt that his advice was being asked. And you’re as clean as fire. 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. "Well, Lady Trafford," he said, fixing a severe look upon her. Just speak the word," he added, drawing the knife significantly across his throat, "and I'll put it out of his power to do the same by your second.
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