Woo had not been with me long when Lizzie said, “Mrs Pinker is coming to town. She wants to stay at your house, but she hates monkeys.” “Too bad for Mrs Pinker!” “Are you going to let a monkey ruin your business?” “Love me, love my monk.” Mrs Pinker came. “I hear there is a monkey in the house! I don’t like monkeys—disgusting, smelly! Saw enough of them in that hotel in Madeira! Impossible!…

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Woo’s winter quarters were in my furnace room. She had two sunny windows; a narrow lawn lay between them and the street. People walked up Simcoe when they went to the Park, especially to see Woo in her window—not children only. A war cripple whom my sister massaged told Lizzie, “I come down Simcoe Street because of a jolly little monkey in a window there.” A cranky old woman who was walked daily by…

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For the tenants there was the small front garden. The back garden was for me and my creatures. I had created it from a hummocky, wild lot—built my apartment house so that the windows of tenants did not overlook me. Tenants’ wash-lines did have to roll, high out over my lawn, but the Smiths, Joneses, and Robinsons did not have to occupy their undies while they flapped over my head. In my garden were fruit trees…

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