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 in a middle pew. The congregation poured in. Soon the body of the church was a solid pack of new Easter hats. From the roof…

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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 hating is neither here nor there. They were old friends of your parents in the days of the California gold rush. Your sister insists.” “And…

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I was too busy at the Art School to pay much heed to Lyndhurst and Piddington affairs. Mrs. Piddington was watching me closely. Because she was English she called me “my dear” which did not in the least mean that I was dear to her nor she to me. I kept out of Frank’s way. Mrs. Piddington had a good many friends (those people in the Lyndhurst hotel whom she thought worthwhile). Among them…

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