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. She never knew what became of her farmer after that. She loved to walk through the gardens, graced with columns that loomed overhead. ‘Ain’t my place, I know that. He kissed her cheek. Her blood spurted into his mouth and he drank.
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