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The books I fondly remember from my childhood were all set in London or the English countryside. My mother would read these to me, unleashing her best British accent, and when we came across words or phrases that were unfamiliar to us (“spotted dick,” for example) we’d research each one. These stories always left me yearning to travel to England (which, in my teenage years, I got to do quite a few times). Life over there appeared to be so elegant, at least from the way it was portrayed in these books, and I loved everything about the culture. Nothing seemed more exciting than taking a trip to Harrods or as luxurious as afternoon tea and scones.
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