"Not a syllable!" answered the carpenter, angrily. She married my Dad in a small ceremony down at City Hall. She found herself mildly entertained by staring at the houses through the rain as she walked home, all cast in a gray blurry film noir gauze of rain. One point was that she was to wear fancy dress in the likeness of a Corsair’s bride, and the other was that she was to spend whatever vestiges of the night remained after the dance was over in London with the Widgett girls and a select party in “quite a decent little hotel” near Fitzroy Square. Besides, by the time they were off his hands, old McClintock would be dropping in to have his liver renovated.
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