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Unformatted text preview: quot; I did. I pushed every Mayfair with a witch's gift into Katherine's face for all the good it did. She was a dreamy sweet sort. She never argued. But then the unthinkable occurred. It began innocently enough. She wanted a house in the city. I should hire the Irish architect Darcy Monahan to build it for her, in the Faubourg uptown where all the Americans had settled. "You must be mad," I said. My father had been Irish, true, but I had never known him. I was a Creole, and spoke only French. "Why would we want to live up there with those splashy Americans? With mer- chants and trash such as that?" I bought from Darcy a town house in the Rue Dumaine which he had already completed for a man who'd gone bankrupt and blown his brains out. I could see the ghost of this man from time to time, but it didn't bother me. It was like that ghost of Marie Claudette, something lifeless and unable to communicate. I moved into this flat, and made lavish rooms for Katherine. Not good enough. And so I said, "All right, we shall buy the square of land...
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This note was uploaded on 02/20/2010 for the course WRITING 220.200 taught by Professor Julie during the Spring '10 term at Johns Hopkins.
- Spring '10