The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. Sorrow lay in the back of his mind as he withdrew, but he put it aside. A glance down the passage—to see that Roding was not lurking?—and her face came back to Gerald, triumph in her eyes. I’ve never had a homemade Thanksgiving meal like that.
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