But that other world, in spite of her resolute exclusion of it, was always looking round corners and peeping through chinks and crannies, and rustling and raiding into the order in which she chose to live, shining out of pictures at her, echoing in lyrics and music; it invaded her dreams, it wrote up broken and enigmatical sentences upon the passage walls of her mind. Wait!" He released himself from his aunt's embrace, ran to the trunk and fetched the old coat. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. They stank, and she hated how they blocked the sunlight.
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