“I think,” she said, “that I rather like what you have said. 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 can’t imagine Londoners—particularly interested in me. Lucy simply added her own good night, even though a significant part of her wanted to call Cathy mother, she refrained. 265 The madness crept around her like smoke under a door.
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