. . They are our food, Lucia, nothing more. I seek chaos, but not out of choice. A great bowl of scarlet carnations gleamed from a dark corner, set against the background of a deep brown wall. The fact itself is regrettable enough—regrettable, I fear, is quite an inadequate word. Her birthday was four months away, and that, at its extremist point, might give her another five pounds. She limited herself to eating once a fortnight, until she discovered that she could go without comfortably for a month. Somebody may be on the watch—perhaps, that old ginger-hackled Jew.
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