So if a Harlow heir were to leave, before the communion was passed down . . .” “Then they never got to have it,” I said flatly. “Wow. What an utter crock.” “My sentiments exactly,” my mother murmured into her cup, speaking up for the first time. “What, James? It’s the very worst sort of archaic nonsense to keep it under wraps, and it always has been. And you know it, too.” “It’s tradition,” my father argued. “It’s patriarchal codswallop,” she countered, eyebrows raised over the rim of her mug as she took an emphatic sip. “And it’s as though he didn’t even consider the consequences for his
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