Supper was over. She enjoyed preparing the evening meals, the smells of potatoes roasting in the oven, the stink of onions in the pan, the crackle of chicken frying. I cannot tell you much about it, but my bad times are over for the present. “Annabel! Why, what on earth have you been doing to yourself, child?” she exclaimed. “That,” she answered, “is far easier to believe.
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