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. and Mrs. McClintock wrote me about you; but all I needed was the sight of your face as it was a moment gone. “Thank you. All the money he earned—serving McClintock and the muse—could be laid away. He would never be able to figure out that: all these miles from Cuba, and you could get a perfecto for thirteen cents.
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