I had advanced from the drawing of casts and was now painting “still life” under the ogling eye of the French Professor. I was afraid of him, not of his harsh criticisms but of his ogle-eyes, jet black pupils rolling in huge whites, like shoe buttons touring round soup-plates.
In Geary Street Square, close to the Lyndhurst, was a Church of England with so high a ritual that our Evangelical Bishop would have called it Popish. On Easter morning I went into the Geary Street Square. The church-bell was calling and I entered the church and sat down…
Mrs. Piddington twiddled the envelope. Her eyes upon my face warned me, “Don’t forget I am your boss!” “You are to call on the Roarats at once,” she said, and shook my sister’s letter in my face. “I don’t intend to call upon the Roarats, I hate them.” “Your…
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