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"Never saw you makin' custard-pies at ten o'clock at night before," returned Jerome, with blunt defiance. "Do you s'pose," said his mother, "that I'm goin' to let your father go off an' die all alone an' take no notice of it?" "Dun'no' what you mean?" "Don't you know it's three days since he went off to get that wood an' never come back?" Jerome nodded.
The mystery of the brawn and muscle of New England is no less wrapped up in pies. But don't hesitate. Pitch in. There's something about this air that turns a nightly mixture of mince-pies, pumpkin-pies, custard-pies, lemon-pies, and apple-pies, with cheese, into a substance as heavenly light as fresh-fallen manna.
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