We always go out to dinner on holidays. The Pursuit. My mother died the day I was born; that’s what they tell me. Lucy had baked the apple and pumpkin pies, carefully molding the flour crusts and adding extra teaspoonfuls of allspice and cinnamon while no one looked. The practice has been common for thousands of years. He displayed none of the airy optimism of their previous talk over the downland gate. “Odd!” he remarked, rather surprisingly, after a little interval.
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