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Summary
John Watson sat at the table across from his daughter, watching her pick at her sandwich. At three years old she had begun a phase in which she gave Sherlock a run for his money and lived on a diet that consisted of air and dew from morning glories. She had him beat in that he sometimes was weak and needed tea with milk and sugar and an occasional biscuit. Since she had no interest in eating her lunch, Rosie Watson was intent on using her index and thumb to pinch off bits of bread and roll them into tiny dough balls that she dropped onto the table. John found the whole process exhausting.