Granny Smith’s her go to, for baking. Last week she made a strudel. The wardens told her they’d had to throw it away — she’d refused to eat it. Wouldn’t even take a bite.
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The house was a blight on the suit’s lovely cornfield horizon. He raised a cigar to his lips, drinking in the expensive smoke—bad for one’s health, of course, but that didn’t matter much since his power didn’t come from his heart.
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