By Lon Otto
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Extra info for A nest of hooks
We see her leave every morning, she walks. " Hah, I thought, I know what's coming. He straightened, trowel in hand, leaned backward to stretch the kinks from his back. Then he moved to a new, square-walled bed which I had helped him build. I helped with one version, at least; he has changed it many times since. I could recognize sections of the original, but most was strange, though seemingly long-established. The walls he builds look, within a few weeks, as if they've been there fifty years or more.
Fine," I said, watching him garden. " "This is true," he said. "Four years ago, when we first moved in here, people who thought we were Catholic informed us that we were in Immaculate Conception parish. A number of the kids in the neighborhood attend Immaculate Conception school, and the woman who lives next door teaches there. We see her leave every morning, she walks. " Hah, I thought, I know what's coming. He straightened, trowel in hand, leaned backward to stretch the kinks from his back.
Coming up to me and asking me if I need help. Do I need help. I've just discovered that I am some kind of eunuch here; I pose no threat, I offer no promise. Do I need help. I begin to look about systematically. There is every sort of cloth except unbleached muslin. No bleached muslin, either, for that matter. No canvas, no duckcloth, no sailcloth, no fisherman's cloth. I wander over to some nice tweeds; I finger them judiciously. My great grandfather was a tailor. I think I may have inherited his feel for fabrics.