Jacques Cousteau’s 1971 book, “Diving for Sunken Treasure,” sits on the nightstand beside my bed, with hope — one magical night the book pulls me in, sitting me on a coral reef watching.

There she stood — all crimson and velvet of her — an 1847 Victorian sofa trimmed in 3-D mahogany carvings of savage wolves and other random forest creatures.

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“By dawn on June 6, [1944] thousands of paratroopers and glider troops were already on the ground behind enemy lines, securing bridges and exit roads.