Running to Gosse, she seized the portrait from his hand and lashed out, taking him off guard, so that he staggered back and fell against the card table. The smells of skewered fennel, roast chicken, and broiled pheasant saturated the air, and she could smell other wonderful aromas about them. She entered the kitchen. “Stop this—this humbugging,” he explained. Stanley. Who is the other?” “What other?” Her voice seemed to come from a long way off. “It is part of the irony of life,” he said.
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