Icicles and Dvorak

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A small blizzard buried the girls of the Little White House on Thursday.

This is just a note to say that the sun is shining brilliantly today, and we are an island in a sea of white, and I am listening to Dvorak (loudly) as Abby clinks silverware and rustles papers in the next room, and icicles are falling off our roof with a pristine, metallic slash and clatter much like I imagine the guillotines of the French Revolution must have sounded.

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