” “Ye—e—es. I hate children. “I am staying at the Savoy. In the distance a barrel-organ was grinding out a pot pourri of popular airs. He delayed the blow till the fortunate conjuncture was past. I'd like to be alone now. Rain started to pummel the roof of the pavilion, which coalesced into sheets and rumbled to the cement below. A home MAY be a sort of cage, but still—it’s a home.
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