He sat there for a good while stuffing his pipe with care, then at last nodded at the saucepans and managed to say: ‘Nice.’ ‘Thanks, Dad.’ She smiled. ‘You cooked it. Not me,’ he said. ‘The thanks was not for the food,’ she answered and took away the plates, kissing her father tenderly on his forehead at the same time as she saw Ove diving in under the bonnet of the truck in the yard. Her father said nothing, just stood up with a quiet snort and took the newspaper from the kitchen top. Halfway to his armchair in the living room he stopped himself, however, and stood there slightly unresolved,
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