The entrance of the house 85 was grand, and upon entering she was immediately greeted by John’s mother, a tall, thin woman quite a few years older than Cathy Beck. 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. They took her fingerprints sitting at the gray metal desk of Officer Nolte, the virile young buck who had brought her in. She tucked her stick under her arm and re-read Manning’s letter. "Where?" she cried.
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