But don’t run away with the idea that I’m hanging out for a wife at last, because I’m not. She hoped that he would at long last remember his young male pride. Wagner had just been in love when he wrote it all. 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. To be ill and helpless. The conflict was of short duration; for Shotbolt was no match for his athletic antagonist. She tightened her bandage and sat back, biting her lip. To-morrow morning I shall have made up my mind what to do.
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