Joan is eighty-five years old, and I fell a little in love with her on Thanksgiving. She was sitting on our couch reading a copy of The Aeneid that she had plucked from the bookshelves that line our family room.
Joan is eighty-five years old, and I fell a little in love with her on Thanksgiving. She was sitting on our couch reading a copy of The Aeneid that she had plucked from the bookshelves that line our family room.
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