The material cares of life hang about your neck like a millstone. And in reality even that magic garden-close resolves itself into a villa at Morningside Park and my father being more and more cross and overbearing at meals—and a general feeling of insecurity and futility. His gray eyes were closed, his persimmon-colored lips open and panting. The hotel manager was expostulating and Ah Cum was replying by a series of expressive shrugs. Come home alone.
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