” “It’s an unrest—a longing—What’s that?” The waiter had intervened. The wound lay open for five seconds, and then closed neatly as if it had been stitched by invisible hands. 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. Was there ever such madness?” “I am afraid that I don’t understand,” Ennison answered. E. ‘That is why I have come to England, you understand.
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