The smells of skewered fennel, roast chicken, and broiled pheasant saturated the air, and she could smell other wonderful aromas about them. “My dear,” she began, with an affectionate hand on Ann Veronica’s shoulder, “I do SO wish you would realize how it grieves your father. It was not that the servants could not, they simply preferred to. He pumped as she raised her legs obediently. “Anna! What tragedy has happened, little sister? No lights, no supper, no coffee —and, above all, no Mr. Rubbishy novels and pernicious rascals.
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