They even talked about friendship. It was astonishing how seldom it was that his instincts betrayed him. But I may yet live to thwart them. She realized more and more the quality of the brink upon which she stood—the dreadful readiness with which in certain moods she might plunge, the unmitigated wrongness and recklessness of such a self-abandonment. 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. Your lamented mother, whose loss I shall ever deplore, perceived my passion and encouraged it. “I’ve been through all that,” she went on, after a pause. It did not matter that he wore the cloth; something was wrong with him. She reflected upon that with a thrill of terror that was also, somehow, in some faint remote way, gleeful.
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