God, Lucy, what’s it been, how many years?” “I’m so sorry, John. Petite build, like herself. A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand. 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 am very much afraid,” Anna answered, “that it was.
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