I have read that authors are very selfish and self-centred. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. ’ Gerald grinned. “I believe she’s dressing up-stairs—now. The sun was setting, casting long dreary shadows across deformed apple trees. Perhaps her granddaughter might marry his grandson. "Hear! hear!" vociferated Quilt. "Let me go," cried Winifred.
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