F. Your life is like a funeral March. Oh dear!—how sorry I am I ever left Wych Street. He would raise her up once again, ply her with silks and jewels again, all of the accoutrements of the new generation: the cars, the toys, the restaurants, and the prestige. All the money he earned—serving McClintock and the muse—could be laid away. But it is only fair to warn you that it isn’t expected.
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