Her answer was not quite ready. “I do not think that he is quite dead. ‘You make me talk, you make me talk. One of your aunts died, I believe, and the other removed to London. For a time she could scarcely believe he was gone. They were filthy after the burial. It’s your first evening, and early impressions do count for so much. Monsieur could rely upon his special attention, and for the cooking—well, he had his customers, who came from their homes to him year after year. Blotted out—Love! With infinite care, through nearly a thousand pages, her father had obliterated the word Love.
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