Denise Hauge

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But as I was saying, I had become aware that there was an “inner me” and an “outer me,” and at the moment I didn’t much care for the outer one. I was only truly myself when I was alone among the glass flasks and retorts in that dear chemical lab in the otherwise abandoned east wing of Buckshaw.
What Time the Sexton's Spade Doth Rust (Flavia de Luce, #11)
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