Wood's. ‘You were supposed to be nursing him,’ Martha grumbled, ‘and helping him convalesce. He’s the handle of life for you. 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. Jacques, Jacques!’ His face was white, but his eyes were open, if a trifle glazed.
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