Friction quickly scraped the glamour of newness from my house-even from the start of its building. My Architect was a querulous, dictatorial man who antagonized his every workman. He had been recommended to me by an inlaw; like a fool I trusted and did not investigate for myself, making enquiry of the two Victoria families he had built for since coming out from England. Always impatient, as soon as I decided to build I…

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The House of All Sorts could not have been quite itself in any other spot in the world than just where it stood, here, in Victoria, across James’ Bay and right next to Beacon Hill Park. The house was built on part of the original property my father had chosen when he came to the new world and settled down to raise his family. This lot was my share of the old cow pasture.

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