And they
liked us. The amazing miracle was that we, also we, were their sort
of folk!
I knew I was being given unbuyable things. One could not live under
the same roof with thin dark Luis Morenas and view what magic his
pencil worked, without learning somewhat of the holiness of creative
work. One couldn't listen to The Author without being somewhat
brightened by his daring wit, his glowing genius; nor live face to
face with big Westmacote without revering the broadness of the
American master spirit, to which Big Business is only a part of the
Great Game. As for Miss Emmeline Phelps-Parsons, it didn't take
Alicia and me long to discover what real depths underlay that
Boston-spinster mind of hers.
And you simply couldn't breathe the same air with The
Suffragist--who appeared with two trunks, three valises, and a
type-writer, all covered with "Votes for Women!" stickers--without
an expansion of the chest. She gave you the impression of having
been dressed by machinery out of gear, and of then having been
whacked flat with a shovel. When she clapped on what she called a
hat, you wondered whether a heron hadn't built its nest on her
head.
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