“The American novel is … a conquest of the frontier; as it describes our experience, it creates it.”

“For eighteen years, Jack Wilson,” she was saying for the third time, “your father took pictures for my family, and we were never dissatisfied. I’m sure if he were back here now—if be weren’t in the hospital—”

Last evening, while we were strangling on the fumes of the newly lighted coal stove, Harriet, who is very romantic, said: “It’s the house, darling. It’s the spirit of the house asserting itself through you.”