F. It was astonishing how often this picture returned: cold rosy apples and flurries of snow. You are your own Heaven and your own Hell, Lucy. Her family had hosted a feast in his honor for which they had taken weeks to prepare: with braised capons and lobster sausages and all sorts of delicious spiced stews her mother had made from secret recipes. From the unlovely hillside his glance strayed to the several five-story towers of the pawnshops. Not even, it seemed, this interfering monsieur le major. She allowed herself to be ejected, therefore, and retired to the parlour after cleansing the blood from her hands and her own slight wound in the kitchen. ‘But so also it is downstairs. Perhaps I'd better open it now.
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