“I heard it; I smelled it.”
“Really? What did it smell of? Brimstone?”
“Violets!”
David started, not wholly because he thought Miss L’Estrange would be flattered by this tribute to her forcible style.
“And I’m not one of your fanciful ones either,” she went on, smirking at the effect she had made.
“How often did this thing happen to you?”
“Twice in three months.”
“Daytime? Night-time?”
“Dead of night. The first time about two in the morning, the second time about three.”