an old-establisrade, and supplied sound goods, and tly. It’s a fact t very feill your o cy, and, t Fat, and Motoo.

    1911, 1912, 1913. I tell you it ime to be alive. It e in 1912, t I first met Elsie aters. till t of to looking for girls and occasionally managed to connect up  and ‘’ a feernoons, I’d never really ’s a queer business, t c sixteen. At some recognized part of toroll up and docroll up and doending not to notice tly some kind of contact is establisead of trailing along in fours, all four utterly speecure of t ime,  ly failure to make any kind of conversation. But Elsie aters seemed different. trut I was growing up.

    I don’t  to tell tory of myself and Elsie aters, even if tory to tell. It’s merely t s of ture, part of ‘before t  t’s . te dusty road stretc betnut trees, t-stocks, t’s oers is part of it.

    I don’t knoy no as tall as I am, ed and coiled round e, curiously gentle face. S al in black, especially t Lilyhan I was.

    I’m grateful to Elsie, because s person  a  mean   ticed  into Lily as it  of butter muslin and old Grimmett sent me to buy some. You knomosp’s somet, a cool smell of clot  ter, cutting off a lengt  against ter—I can’t describe it, somet, curiously feminine. As soon as you saake  you ed le, very submissive, t old  eit even stupid, only rat and, at times, dreadfully refined. But in ther refined myself.

    e oget a year. Of course in a toogetive sense. Officially ’,  quite t branco Upper Binfield and ran along under tr