When I was a little girl running loose with my cousin in the dusty streets of the village where my grandparents had a house and a name and a presence and a history, we would often, on our perambulations, come across those ubiquitous black-kerchiefed old women of Eastern Europe - sitting out in the thick summer shade cast by ancient lindens and the
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I am his Majesty's dog at Kew
Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?
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