When school opened Monday morning at nine sharp I was at the Westminster School of Art. I went first to the Office, enquiring how I was to act. Mr. Ford took me up the broad stairway leading to the balcony off which our class rooms opened. There were two “life” rooms for women. Mr. Ford introduced me to the head student, a woman dour and middle-aged. “Ever worked from life?” she snapped. “Only portrait.”…

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I went to Westminster to hunt up my Art School. I was to become very familiar with Westminster Abbey because the Art School lay just behind it, being housed in the Architectural Museum in Tufton Street. There stood the richly magnificent Abbey stuffed with monumental history, then a flanking of dim, cold cloisters, after that the treed, grassed dignity of Dean’s Yard and then you passed through an archway in a brick wall and…

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Turmoil, crowding, too many people, too little air, was hateful to me. I ached with homesickness for my West though I shook myself, called myself fool. Hadn’t I strained every nerve to get here? Why whimper? Aunt Amelia’s mock-genteel PG’s galled me at every turn—high-bridged noses, hard, loud, clear voices, veneering the cold, selfish indifference they felt for each other with that mawkish, excessive “dearing”. My turbulent nature was restive to be at work;…

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