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Elizabeth Barrow Colt is at The Golden Carrousel with publisher David
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Start: Mealtime was much the same as it had always been … Father still talked a blue streak, Mother still mashed her food into a pink soup, … and I still spit everything out into my napkin.
[... … …]
End: “Don’t be ridiculous, dear,” he’d say. But she meant it and would lie there sobbing, “PLEASE . . . DO IT!” It was a ritual we went through every night.
Howe, Tina. The Art of Dining. Samuel French, 1987. pp.82-83.
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