Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. It was locked. "These writer chaps are queer birds. Buried under various ancestral sixteenths, smothered under modern thought, liberty of action and bewildering variety of flesh-pots, it was still alive to the extent that it needed only his present state to resuscitate it in all its peculiar force. Monsieur could rely upon his special attention, and for the cooking—well, he had his customers, who came from their homes to him year after year. Sebastian, as doctor, was constantly around the sick and the dying. ‘And I wouldn’t be no sort of a man if I’d heard what I heard, and gone off and left you. ’ ‘You may not get the chance. Everybody looked askance at everybody else. I don’t want a family in the suburbs and Christmases at the Florida house and summers at the Hamptons.
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