Her girl Clarice was next, dying within a single day, blood leaking from her pretty brown eyes like an image of the Blessed Virgin. They went on talking in the train—it seemed to her father a slight want of deference to him—and he listened and pretended to read the Times. ‘The whole town is talking. ‘Will that be all, ma’am?’ ‘Yes, yes. 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.
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