” “That is another French custom,” he remarked, “which is not so agreeable. Then it dawned. It was the same smell that she had in his memory, but now it was definite, palpable, like a perfume. She laid her hand upon his arm. Wild is incapable of such baseness. It was she who felt guilty as he showed her their bedroom, smelling her perfume, ingesting their psychic leftovers. Sheppard, who had again looked round towards her son, beheld a hand glance along the side of the woollendraper. Some of them are now buried at the bottom of the Thames. She helped him take it off.
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