‘Besides, I don’t want the men blundering in here and frightening off our spy. She knew that the stairs they had to negotiate to the vestry were extremely narrow, and she had made her plans. It could not be she who had done this. She answered in whispers, for there was the white arm of a woman in the next box peeping beyond the partition within a yard of him. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. 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.
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