Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. It’s Italian. She had a bittersweet fragrance, like dusty books and honeysuckle. Away in London even now Capes was packing and preparing; Capes, the magic man whose touch turned one to trembling fire. He was engaged in detesting Manning and himself in almost equal measure. I—well, I borrowed Anna’s name. Wood went on fuming, and the trio went on laughing for some minutes, nobody knew why or wherefore, until the party was increased by Mr. Wood,—"he'll never mend.
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