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 grabbed her legs and threw the covers from the bed. This is your moment. “Why?” He inquired. Her father was holding her waist, smiling. “Cheveney!” she repeated. Soon the trunk, portmanteau and hat box were ready. His eyes glowed beneath the glasses and his blue buttondown shirt was reflected in the lenses.
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