“He is not—I don’t like him. Walking to the station with him. Rain started to pummel the roof of the pavilion, which coalesced into sheets and rumbled to the cement below. He knew it absolutely, as if he had the check in his hand. When my father died, and we were left alone in Jersey, I was quite a long time deciding whether I would go in for singing professionally or try painting. . . “I see no reason why you shouldn’t. There was no rush. What he wanted desperately was to be alone. Stanley admired and detested him in almost equal measure.
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