The militiaman at once thrust the old man between the shoulder blades, pushing him into the kitchen. I haven't touched the other. 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. Even in her painting smock and with her disarranged hair, the likeness between the two girls was marvellous. There was only one small grated window in this hold, which admitted but little light.
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