Ophelia Pie

She hears there’s tricks i’ the world, and hems, and beats her heart, spurns enviously at straws, speaks things in doubt that carry but half sense. This, then, is a pie of half-sense, and of remembering. Bake it, and remember. I was all out of pansies, and I haven’t seen a columbine in years, and cooking with rue seemed foolish: but the other things are there, and they are very good.

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