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. Daughters were not like sons. She lingered over donning her winter coat, buttoning each toggle and placket, double knotting her long scarf. The joy that filled her veins with throbbing fire urged her to rise and go swinging and whirling and dipping. I had done the most compromising things, and behaved in the most ridiculous way.
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