She longed to enjoy human food as he did. Her family had hosted a feast in his honor for which they had taken weeks to prepare: with braised capons and lobster sausages and all sorts of delicious spiced stews her mother had made from secret recipes. She would become defensive—what she did would be the thing that mattered. Winifred's face had a thoroughly amiable look. The word "criticism" had no concrete meaning to her then; no more than "compromise. And they pay her. ” “Don’t say that,” Sydney begged.
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