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could be made up from it, something for a store."

"When I was in New York," I replied, "I sold quite a bit of weaving to the stores. I expect to try to place it in the stores here."

After our guests left that night, Leon's expression turned gloomy.  He said he had overheard my remark about trying to sell the weaving, adding emphatically that he did not approve.

"Why not?"

"I just won't countenance having my wife running around San Francisco, like a rag peddler," he said. "Weaving for pleasure is one thing, but I absolutely forbid you to try to sell anything."

So that was that. I continued to work at the loom.  The shelves in the apartment soon filled.  The personal satisfaction remained, but it seemed more or less pointless to create designs that ended up in a dark closet, unseen except by friends, or when I used them as decorative