enormous truffle she came up with. It was almost too big for her to hold in her mouth, it was as big as the largest corm of celeriac Morella's had in their farm shop, as big as a Halloween pumpkin.
Without protest she let it drop into Jim's cupped hands. He sniffed its aroma, the scent that one of those posh London chefs who went on the TV would pay more for than the whole of his winter fuel supplement. “Good girl,” he said and popped into Honey's mouth a thick slice of prime Scottish beef.
Ruth Rendell
Вы читаете Not in the Flesh
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