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All too soon we came into Virginia (after a navigational error on my part took us 100 miles off-course into West Virginia) and then into Washington and to 2500 Q Street, Pat's little apartment. While he was putting the car in the basement garage, I removed his suits from the main wardrobe closet to a smaller one.  None of course took up much more room. He said nothing when he discovered the change in his menage, the first of many to come. I had a shower and came out to dress. Thumbtacked to the door of the closet was a slip of paper on which was scribbled, "Weaving spiders come not here."

This is the motto above the entrance to the Bohemian Club in San Francisco. Pat has made it his own. When he catches me trying to maneuver him into something he calls me a "weaving spider." Or he recites the Old English couplet that begins, "God