The preparations to meet him were immense, roses were planted everywhere, white and drooping with honeyed fragrance. He could not possibly lunge in the confined space, and so had nothing to do but back himself into the chapel as fast as he could. There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets. “I don’t think I CAN do that,” she said.
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