And for me there is only one treasure-house. 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. She was taken dreadfully ill on the road, with spasms and short breath, and swoonings,—worse than ever she was before. “Queer letters he writes,” she said. Wear one on the stage on the following day.
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