I’ve never had a homemade Thanksgiving meal like that. From the portals of the hotel—scarcely fifty yards from the canal—one saw the blank face of the ancient city of Canton. “Everything very nice, I am sure,” Miss Stanley murmured to Capes as he steered her to a place upon the little sofa before the fire. Behind the poet came Sir James Thornhill. I hated him. Shoplatch. I still have a cross stitch she made for me of a little fairy sitting on a daffodil.
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