He had not bothered to take off his raincoat and his umbrella sat dripping on his modern ice cube of a table. On the stranger's appearance, she was seated near the window busily occupied with her needle. Lucy felt her eyes misting up, turning traitor. She had a bittersweet fragrance, like dusty books and honeysuckle. The last that is known of Monsieur Charvill is when he departed the Valade estate.
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