CHAPTER XXIII. All men are bloody fucking hypocrites. It reverberated in the silence. Nobody toys with me. Perhaps she might never come back to that breakfast-room again. He boasted of her ability to learn to men who were a stone’s throw from having the power of the pope himself. But she wished she could put the thing she had done in some way to them so that it would not hurt them so much as the truth would certainly do. I’d rather die than hear any more fairytales. It's a pity you wouldn't give me the prescription instead of the medicine, so I could have it filled nearer home. "Kingfisher feathers," said Ah Cum. 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.
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