Diane spooned warm apple-rhubarb pie onto the girl’s plates, topping each with scoops of ice cream. You are nothing of the sort. "Well—well," grumbled Jonathan, "I suppose I must be content. I was his wife. Diane Vorsack tried to disguise the fact that she was livid, her daughter’s buffoonery having driven off the prestigious dinner guests before the after-dinner drinks could be served. "Where can I hide myself?" he added, glancing round the room in search of a closet.
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