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. His face was downcast. I'll go with you. He was dressed with the utmost care, and he set his feet upon the broad walk as though the action were in some way a condescension. He was full of fabulous stories, not just tales of his own past in Rome but wonderful fables from the mysterious Orient and the ancient Greeks, old jokes and yarns that only he remembered. “You were going to answer it?” “Certainly not!” she said deliberately. “Some afternoon. But I do not even care if I am absurd. At the door to the kitchen, he called out, ‘Pottiswick!’ The old man came out, shoving his chin in the air and glaring. Who was he to tread on her dreams? She had heroworshipped an unscrupulous adventurer, who had not hesitated to impose on her youth and her ignorance.
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