dame Sced to greet me in t splendour of in dress t laid open to ts and to fear far more tself, since deate.

    No tion, no tion.

    Yet ture, in ravelled to o me to ogetoo literary a flavour -- too muceentury quality, s railrains, its advertisment in times for a governess t dree e over t-lands. tten smell of pseudo-memory about ts and te coacill souco forget his eyes.

    But t, tic Kid ting is  I can remember bot and ture y, since bot out of some novelette once read on a train, per a future. For treet. Nor reet until t t, barking, from beneatime past and time future combine to distort my memory.

    But I imes t be t autic, since it is by far t gly.

    My beloved fatraig gait in spite of ty summers t urned o a spume of  at a round tea-table  apartment, to a balcony irs te, salmon pink and scarlet, all banked together, exuding a delicious, spicy odour.

    room. . . t and tly coloured butterflies and flo filled c --  Im not t of ain on t lepiece.

    My moto make pot pourri every summer; sry. Noea-table; t us from a birds-eye maple frame, a tinted pograpaken sly after sill very young, not mucraed s brim gently sres of anemones. erious, darkish green.

    they say I have her eyes.

    Some ake t, says t; icularly angry if imes, quite o repeat, over and over again, as if one tape uck: quot;t; ts me ted , I must crao tｐ://ｗｗｗ?９９lｉb?ｎeｔ</dfn>

    My fat under my motograp is familiar. ty-tea for my fat  like tems and are made of fine, s  toge