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. She was a contented person, did not nose round into odd corners. This and that did not interest Alice, only the things right in the beaten path. The…

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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 the formal little interested notes in answer to my letters. I respected my guardian very much and had a suspicion that my going to him direct…

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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. He said to me, “You have good colour-sense. Let me see your eyes, their colour.” The way he ogled down into my eyes made me…

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