The grate was full of fluttering ashes of burnt paper, and the easy chair near the fire had evidently been used. I did think it could be done. He had plugged along, if not happy, at least with sound philosophy. “When did you look up my mother’s records at the Joliet library, Michelle?” Lucy asked, trying not to incriminate herself by sounding confrontational. My mother died the day I was born; that’s what they tell me.
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