My father thought the latter. She no more realizes what she has done than a child of eight. That was one of the compensations for having consigned himself to this part of the world. My foster mom works there as a second job. But if not himself, there would be another soon enough. 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. There was a confused impression of livery carriages and whips with white favors, people fussily wanting other people to get in before them, and then the church. White rang the bell.
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