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“I have never seen him in my life,” she said to the official. " "And what—what was your answer?" demanded the widow, eagerly. 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. She slipped down the perfunctory flight of stairs, short because of the home’s split-level style. She dressed quickly, pulling on white jeans and a red tee shirt. The likeness was ridiculous. " "The pianist?" "Yes. She made lumpish and inadequate interruptions rather than replies. But he had always felt (he had never allowed himself to think of it) that the promptitude of their family was a little indelicate of her, and in a sense an intrusion. ‘But you are idiot.
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