She practiced swaddling on a doll, pretending to pat the head of her imaginary infant boy. “Hold on, she’s right here. 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. What little happiness I had I was forced to steal. She heard his voice screaming her name into the twilight as she fled, his cries trailing like banners, weaving through the breeze that had begun to gently stir the dew on the ground. Think how free that leaves me to follow things up! I must take you everywhere. “I am afraid that you are making a mistake,” she said. ” “Do you think he’ll come after you?” “Why would he do that? It has been three hundred 239 years.
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