“My father’s sisters used once to live in the old manor house. He walked through the misty September night to his rooms. All the king's horses and all the king's men could not undo what was done; nor kill the strange exquisite flower that had grown up in his own lonely heart. Supper was spaghetti and Italian sausage that night. "Well?" he whispered. “Home, of course,” she answered. All the same, I don’t admit it.
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