Outside, everything dripped; inside all gloomed. The monkey’s scarlet apron was the only gay spot this grey day. She sat warming spread toes in front of the Studio fire. Ginger was alert for play, but Woo was pensive. The telephone whizzed, “May I bring a stranger to your studio?” “Artist?” “No, writer.” “Sure, come on!” The stranger, a woman, asked me to show her some pictures. They interested her. “Tell me,” she said, “why…

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Woo’s rages spluttered up and went out like struck matches. Open angry jaws, spread nostrils, clutching fingers, jerking head, grunts! Next moment, all forgotten. Woo was intensely loyal to the few she loved. I saw this loyalty put to severe test once. A visitor to the Studio loosed the fox fur she wore and bounced it at Woo. Terrified, the monkey screamed and rushed under the sofa. Ginger dashed to see what was wrong…

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That the monkey loved me I could not doubt. She did not show her love for me in the same way that she showed it for Ginger Pop. He, an animal, was in her own class; I, a human, was something else. Under human gaze Woo assumed false behaviour, became self-conscious. She sensed the superiority, the amusement a human feels towards a monkey, a giggling, stupid human, retreating if Woo looked, stretched a hand…

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