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In winter he bottled his wine in the cellar; he went to Mass on Sundays and took Communion, a reflex left over from his childhood. When he got up in the morning brutaldildos he said, brutaldildos "How are you?" and didn't wait to hear the answer. He lived in a world of his own, what world brutaldildos you couldn't really be sure, double-locked behind an invisible door: it was a tenuous veil but enough to make him inaccessible. When I sometimes asked, as a child, "What are you thinking about, Papa?" he would say, "I was just falling asleep," or "The roses are very red this year." Early in the evening on Christmas and New Year's Day, after sitting at the table all afternoon and pretending to join in the conversation, he would suddenly get up and say he was going to make onion soup, another reflex, almost an instinct, like taking Communion but no doubt performed with more sincerity, because he flung himself into it wholeheartedly, browning onions, adding water and white wine, toasting bread, grating cheese-Comté rather than Gruy?re,
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