She paced restlessly to the door and back again, biting her tongue on the hot words begging to be uttered. Do you expect me, I wonder. She had found it in 1988, the year of the stock market crash. 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. I’ll have to wait here, of course, which means you, Hilary—’ ‘Will have to do tomorrow’s patrol.
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