Christmas at Knapf's had been a happy surprise; a day
of hearty good cheer and kindness. There had even been
a Christmas tree, hung with stodgy German angels and
Pfeffernuesse and pink-frosted cakes. I found myself the
bewildered recipient of gifts from everyone--from the
Knapfs, and the aborigines and even from one of the
crushed-looking wives. The aborigine whom they called
Fritz had presented me with a huge and imposing
Lebkuchen, reposing in a box with frilled border,
ornamented with quaint little red-and-green German
figures in sugar, and labeled Nurnberg in
stout letters, for it had come all the way from that
kuchen-famous city. The Lebkuchen I placed on my mantel
shelf as befitted so magnificent a work of art. It was
quite too elaborate and imposing to be sent the way of
ordinary food, although it had a certain tantalizingly
spicy scent that tempted one to break off a corner here
and there.
On the afternoon of Christmas day I sat down to thank
Dr. von Gerhard for the flowers as prettily as might be.
Also I asked his pardon, a thing not hard to do with the
perfume of his roses filling the room.
"For you," I wrote, "who are so wise in the ways of
those tricky things called nerves, must know that it was
only a mild hysteria that made me say those most
unladylike things.
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