London was unbearable. August was exceptionally hot. Aunt Amelia lived in West Kensington—one of those houses in a straight row all alike and smeared with smug gentility. I felt the shackles of propriety pinch me before the door was shut. The six PG’s without one direct look amongst them…
The woman in the deck chair next to mine stroked a strand of red hair from her forehead with a freckled hand. “Oh, my head!” “Have my smelling bottle.” She took three long sniffs and then pointed the bottle across the deck. “Awful woman!” indicating a loud, lounging woman…
Immediately upon my return from the West Coast Mission, I tasted two experiences for the first time—love, and poetry. Poetry was pure joy, love more than half pain. I gave my love where it was not wanted; almost simultaneously an immense love was offered to me which I could…
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