Leave Martin Chen and his family alone. Seven hundred forty-two dollars and eighty-one cents, the sum total of her money in the world that she hid in a filigreed cigar box shelved behind her schoolbooks. “I wonder,” he said, “how you would like to be made love to—boldly or timorously or sentimentally. “It really seems as if we shall have to put down marigolds altogether next year,” Aunt Molly repeated three times, “and do away with marguerites. I’ve never muffed an exam yet. Slipshod; follow me. I don’t classify. ‘But lay him down.
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