‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. Michelle sat on her bed, which emanated scents of powdered laundry detergent and Sweet Honesty perfume. Your aunt liked the pheasant. Why had he kissed her? What had led him into that? Neither love nor passion— utter blankness so far as reducing the act to terms. “Yes,” she answered, looking away.
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