She donned her fuzzy slippers and traipsed downstairs, the welcoming smell of coffee beckoning her, the sound of Looney Toons music barely audible from the television set. “No, Lucy, it isn’t fine and I am sorry. Only a son’s another story. Yet the smoke was curling upwards in a faint innocent-looking cloud to the ceiling. “Your father is in the study and wishes to speak to you.
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