The Baroness found it amusing to go to tea; she dressed as if for dinner. The tea-table offered an anomalous and picturesque repast; and on leaving it they all sat and talked in the large piazza, or wandered about the garden in the starlight.

Writing fiction is the act of weaving a series of lies to arrive at a greater truth.

Donation is the word. Inner feelings are  the values.

Let me tell you, sisters, seeing dried egg on a plate in the morning is a lot dirtier than anything I&#39;ve had to deal with in politics.

Written By Ann Richards

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