She talked marvelously well, for she had all the
charm and vivacity of the true Viennese. Even the
aborigines, bristling pompadours, thick spectacles,
terrifying manner, and all, became as dear as old
friends, now that I knew I must lose them.
The great, high-ceilinged room upstairs had taken on
the look of home. The Blue-beard closet no longer
appalled me. The very purpleness of the purple roses in
the rug had grown beautiful in my eyes because they were
part of that little domain which spelled peace and
comfort and kindness. How could I live without the stout
yellow brocade armchair! Its plethoric curves were balm
for my tired bones. Its great lap admitted of sitting
with knees crossed, Turk-fashion. Its cushioned back
stopped just at the point where the head found needed
support. Its pudgy arms offered rest for tired elbows;
its yielding bosom was made for tired backs. Given the
padded comfort of that stout old chair--a friendly,
time-tried book between my fingers--a dish of ruddy
apples twinkling in the fire-light; my mundane soul
snuggled in content. And then, too, the
book-in-the-making had grown in that room. It had
developed from a weak, wobbling uncertainty into a
lusty full-blooded thing that grew and grew
until it promised soon to become mansize.
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