During my sisters’ visit I said to Alice, “Can it be possible that the entire wicked awfulnesses of the world are stuffed into San Francisco?” “Why do you think that?” “Mrs. Piddington said . . .” but I did not tell Alice what Mrs. Piddington said.
Having once gone to my guardian for advice, I continued to do so. The ice was broken—I wrote him acknowledging my check each month and telling him my little news, dull nothings, but he troubled to comment on them. He was a busy man to be bothered writing…
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…
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