It's Sunday mornings that never lapse into afternoon without dad's famous pancakes, and a back door that always sticks on humid days. It's laughter from the children down the street carrying gently across freshly cut grass, and the neighborhood paperboy whose aim never quite makes the porch. It's the comfort of the most familiar surroundings, laden with the most precious recollections. Tillinghast, in its most deﬁnitive expression, is home.
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