All junk?
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Clara poked at a lamp with a fringed shade, shaking her head. “It’s all junk, Arthur. You could toss it all and no one would miss it.” But I didn’t listen to them. I ran my fingers over the carved table. It wasn’t just any old table. It was intricate, beautifully crafted, a piece of art. It seemed odd that my father would stash it all here, hidden from us.
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