“Neither you nor I, Nigel, are made of such stuff,” she answered. Her acrid rose perfume oil that hung in the air that smelled like a head shop, her V. 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. Along the inner side was a wonderfully arranged series of displayed specimens that Russell himself had prepared.
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