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. Sheila had dropped glaring hints that she knew, which Chuck tacitly acknowledged with a lowered gaze. Every time he left a room, she chastised herself bitterly for her own profound weakness. “This is a very foolish sort of entertainment. " "But not for me," growled Terence, in an under tone.
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