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She is languid in the bath, as on a chaise longue, as though she is taking in the sun, as though taking in Bizet, aglint with water and steam, maybe with a book in her hands, surrounded by billowing clouds of foam. Alone, of course—this is a private pleasure. She sinks into the voluptuous waters: a generous measure of rose and a mixture of amber, patchouli, and sandalwood, one might think the scent was carved in her likeness. She abandons herself to it, and it to her. She loves the intimate resonance of its perfume, dream-distilled. Perhaps it is she who is scenting the waters.
And she steps out reborn from the spume, trailing the note of this suspended moment.
Portrait of a Lady. The foam bath.
Mix a few drops with hot water, they will metamorphose into an opulent but ethereal mousse.
Your body fully surrenders to the perfume. Once rinsed, the skin emerges divinely smooth and subtly scented. All over…
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