The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. And don’t talk until we’re well out of earshot. Wearied at length with thinking on the past, and terrified by the prospect of the future, he threw himself on the straw with which the cage was littered, and endeavoured to compose himself to slumber. She nursed at his neck as he peacefully slumbered through being killed. 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 weed was all right.
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