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First let me set your mind at rest about the Proust3 book: I got the American edition of "Within a Budding Grove"4 some weeks before I received your letter. You were most kind to remember my impatience to get it, and far from having been neglectful, you've been over-punctilious in remembering your promise.
I am so glad you had a pleasant stay in Rome5, and had found the region of the
Pincian gardens especially attractive. I always feel as if that were more all the
many Romes of many ages heaped up together than any other part of the city. I'm sure
it's a Roman habit to pick up trifles: I once saw a lean priest appropriate a loaf
of bread from a cart in tuck it into his gown.
You know something about American geography: June 10th I went out to Ann Arbor, Michigan6, to receve receive a doctorate degree
from the University7. Then I went home to Red Cloud Nebraska8 (named for an Indian
chief9) and stayed six weeks with my father10 and mother11. Early in August raced back three days and three nights on
trains and then a day by boat, out to this Island in the Bay of Fundy12, off the
coast of New Brunswick13, where I had rented
a cottage for the summer months. My little house is in an apple orchard that drops
off into the sea about thirty yards from my study window. I have been working very
hard, and happily, after six months of idleness. I hope you are happily at work by
now. Working periods come and go like the tides in this treacherous Bay of
Fundy—there's no controlling them or prognosticating them. The autumn fogs have come
on now, and in three days I am leaving by our one and only twice-a-week-boat, for
the mainland. I go for a week in Boston14 and
then return to 5 Bank Street15. You may
be sure that when I go to England16 I shall
call upon you and Mrs. Swinnerton17, and shall
hope to see a lot of you, in American idiom.