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. Everett’s gaze dropped to the papers in his hand. About noon, next day, he was able to move; and the gale having abated, he set out homewards with his little charge. He wore a long coat, beautifully flowered, and a hat with a turned up brim. A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand.
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