How is the rabbit tonight, my loves? It’s fresh and the chef roasted it bone-in. The rice is from India and it smells faintly of flowers. The carrots come from the garden.
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Let’s walk. Let’s gather in the west yard because, although you are spry, your legs are too short for the wall. I will brush your coats in the early evening light. You’re golden. You’re patient. You’re spoiled.
But you are the end of the line. I am the end of the line. Of course, there’s Charles, for all he is worth, but that won’t last. And then there’s Will.
They don’t love you the way I love you. Indeed, it seems that they love nothing in the same way I do. They do not love the rose garden. They don’t love lamb. And they surely do not love England. Not the way I do.
Not the way you do. We are England, loves, you and I. The children love their dogs, I’m sure. But they do not need them. And so, though I would love a puppy, the fresh grin of a new Corgi face, I cannot.
I will not live forever, but I must outlive you. My sons and grandchildren are fine people. But that is all they are.
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