Her fingers were bursting through her gloves, as if to get at once into touch with Ann Veronica. He had been frozen in time at age forty-two. “Troubles, my friend,” she exclaimed lightly. Then he had gone away. For the present, he murmured his farewells, and turning, caught Hilary’s eye and walked away, crossing the ballroom to move into the less opulent, and less crowded, saloon next door where servants were dispensing refreshments. His scent was like sweet perfume in her state, like the sweet smell of infants.
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