“You decline to help us in any way, then,” he said. His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. ‘Silence,’ he warned again, with a prod of the dagger at her heart. Perhaps marriage hurt. And she felt that if she went home it was imperative to pay. 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.
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