She simply refuses to see or hear from me again. “I wonder if they will seem altered,” she remarked for the third time. ‘He can’t be Valade, that’s certain,’ mused Gerald, unheeding. 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. Then the inner door opened abruptly. We aren’t afraid; we don’t bother.
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