The history and life of writer Beatrix Potter in Cumbria, UK
The front door rang a bell and the carpet struck a chord. The longcase grandfather clock too. The dresser, the chairs and the cupboard were all equally familiar. So was the staircase. There was a lot of déjà vu going on.
Everything brought back childhood memories. Notably of my mother impersonating a hedgehog. And my wife being a pig. We all grew up with those white jackets.
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