“You can count upon me, Nigel,” she said. We tolerate you for your genius, that's a fact. Voilà tout. He looked at her for a moment in a puzzled sort of way. Anything else that was said she now regarded only as an aspect of or diversion from that. It rained slightly, and a thick mist gathered in the air, and obscured the beautiful prospect. The smells of skewered fennel, roast chicken, and broiled pheasant saturated the air, and she could smell other wonderful aromas about them.
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