I had been a year in England when my favourite sister came from Canada to visit me.
Wild with excitement I engaged rooms in the centre of the sightseeing London. Houses and landladies had to be approached through a rigorous reference system of Mrs. Radcliffe’s. I pinned my best studies on the wall of the rooms, thinking my sister would want to see them.
She came in the evening. We talked all through that night. At five A.M. my senses shut off from sheer tiredness. My last thought was, “She will want a pause between travel and sightseeing.”
At seven the next morning she shook me.
“Wake! What sight do we see today?”
“Won’t you want to rest a little after travel?”
“The trip was all rest. I am a good traveller.”
We started off. She entered the sights in her diary every night—date, locality, description.
At the end of a week I remarked, “Not interested in my work, are you?”
“Of course, but I have not seen any.”
“I suppose you thought these were wallpaper?” pointing to my studies on the wall. My voice was nasty. I felt bitter. My sister was peeved. She neither looked at nor asked about my work during the whole two months of her visit. It was then that I made myself into an envelope into which I could thrust my work deep, lick the flap, seal it from everybody.
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