that a three-year-old girl is flung backwards by the draft and ends up very unexpectedly on her bottom.
Beside her stands a seven-year-old girl looking absolutely terrified.
Their hair is pitch black. And they have the biggest brown eyes Ove has ever seen.
“Yes?” says Ove. The older girl looks guarded. She hands him a plastic container.
Ove reluctantly accepts it. It’s warm. “Rice!” the three-year-old girl announces happily, briskly getting to her feet.
“With saffron. And chicken,” explains the seven-year-old, far more wary of him.
Ove evaluates them suspiciously. “Are you selling it?”
The seven-year-old looks offended. “We LIVE HERE, you know!”
Ove is silent for a moment. Then he nods, as if he might possibly be able to accept this premise as an explanation.
“Okay.” The younger one also nods with satisfaction and flaps her slightly-too-long sleeves.
“Mum said you were ’ungry!” Ove looks in utter perplexity at the little flapping speech defect.
“What?” “Mum said you looked hungry. So we have to give you dinner,” the seven-year-old girl clarifies with some irritation.
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