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. “That’s it,” she said. She elected to go to prison. ‘I kissed you once, didn’t I?’ Her pulses jumped and she stared. “You be off, missie,” said the fatherly policeman. He left the room, presumably to sleep elsewhere, but the only other room with a fire was the servant’s quarters.
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