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. He was no Hoddy, but a tremendous man, with hairy arms and bearded face and drink-shattered intellect. No doubt there’s some little mistake. Outside the post-office stood a nohatted, blond young man in gray flannels, who was elaborately affixing a stamp to a letter. Perhaps it had been pick-pocketed or jostled from her dress in a hunt.
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