Apron

Up the steps of St. Anthony's Hospital, St. Louis, waddled a fat man, one A. E. Phillips. His paunch hung down to his knees, an apron of fat, a masonic ponderosity. Each lift of his thighs made his ample pants toss like garments wind-blown on a wash line. His story. . . .

Until last spring he had played the "father" with the Kahns, circus fat family. He could not be the real father, for some of the Kahns were almost as old as he, 47; and,...

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