She was realizing that ineffable
sense of possession born out of knowledge that the enduring part of a
personality is ours forever, and that love is an unquenched fire, fed
by memory as well as hope.
On Thanksgiving morning, Lucy Ann lay in bed a little later, because
that had been the family custom. Then she rose to her exquisite house,
and got breakfast ready, according to the unswerving programme of the
day. Fried chicken and mince pie: she had had them as a child, and now
they were scrupulously prepared. After breakfast, she sat down in the
sunshine, and watched the people go by to service in Tiverton Church.
Lucy Ann would have liked going, too; but there would be inconvenient
questioning, as there always must be when we meet our kind. She would
stay undisturbed in her seclusion, keeping her festival alone. The
morning was still young when she put her turkey in the oven, and made
the vegetables ready. Lucy Ann was not very fond of vegetables, but
there had to be just so many--onions, turnips, and squash baked with
molasses--for her mother was a Cape woman, preserving the traditions of
dear Cape dishes. All that forenoon, the little house throbbed with a
curious sense of expectancy. Lucy Ann was preparing so many things that
it seemed as if somebody must surely keep her company; but when
dinner-time struck, and she was still alone, there came no lull in her
anticipation.
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