Too damned chickenhearted to confess to me he’d run off with the woman. “Um, I really shouldn’t tell you this, but he 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. The sounds that reach the ear, and the objects that meet the eye, are all calculated to awaken a train of sad and serious contemplation. "I might return the question. Wild horses wouldn’t drag it out of me, even I knew anything, which I don’t.
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