“I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled. There was no one stirring in the flats. Nobody toys with me. ‘She has constituted herself leader of the émigrés here, and feels justifiably slighted by having taken the pretend Valades under her wing. She looked away. She was trying by some wonderful, secret, and motionless gymnastics to restrain her tears. 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.
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