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silk on the back of the upright piano, and I never
imagined any of them as in any other edition than
those in which I knew them by sight. The large
photograph of Watts's picture, "Love and Death",
which hung in the drawing-room, gave me the same
feeling as the "Moonlight" sonata (my aunt could
only play the first two movements).

In this brightly visualized world of simplicities and
misapprehensions and mispronounced names every-
thing was accepted without question. I find it
difficult to believe that young people see the world in
that way nowadays, though it is probable that a good
many of them do. Looking back across the years I
listen to the summer afternoon cooing of my aunt's
white pigeons, and the soft clatter of their wings as
they flutter upward from the lawn at the approach of
one of the well-nourished cats. I remember, too, the
smell of strawberry jam being made; and Aunt
Evelyn with a green bee-veil over her head. . . . The
large rambling garden, with its Irish yews and sloping
paths and wind-buffeted rose arches, remains to haunt
my sleep. The quince tree which grew beside the
little pond was the only quince tree in the world.
With a sense of abiding strangeness I see myself look-
ing down from an upper window on a confusion of
green branches shaken by the summer breeze. In an
endless variety of dream-distorted versions the garden
persists as the background of my unconscious

I had always been given to understand that I had
a delicate constitution. This was one of the reasons
which my aunt urged against my being sent to school