And still you interest yourself in my affairs. The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again. She dared not say the word aloud, not even to herself. ‘C’est ridicule. The house was redolent with the smells of cinnamon baking and the stuffed turkey and marinated pork roast. And then her pace slackened. You know what's what.
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