House, I have gone to bed in your attic crying with smart and hurt as though I had been a hen under whose wing hornets had built their nest and stung me every time I quivered a feather. House, I have slept too in your attic, serene as a brooding dove. The Indian eagles painted on the underside of the roof’s shingles brooded over my head, as I brooded over the House of All…

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The attic was no older than the rest of the house. Yet, from the first to me it was very old, old in the sense of dearness, old as the baby you hug and call “dear old thing” is not old in years, but just in the way he has tangled himself round your heart, has become part of you so that he seems always to have existed, as far back as memory goes.

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Sometimes I rented suites furnished, sometimes unfurnished, according to the demand. Two things every tenant provided for himself–sound and silence. His own personality manufactured these, just as he stamped his imprint on every inch of his environment, placing his furniture just so, hoisting and lowering his window blinds straight or crooked. Even the boards of the floor creaked differently to each tenant’s tread, walls echoed his noises individually, each one’s hush was a different…

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