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I have spent two very interesting weeks here2, working hard but enjoying it. This city is more like a European
city than anything else I have found on this continent. It's not pretty according
American ideas—rather grim, as all the cities in Northern France4 are. I've been seeing some very jolly and
learned old priests. Creighton University, in Omaha5, made me a Doctor of
Laws6 a few weeks ago, you know, and the priests here think that both a
great joke and a great honor. I've learned a lot
QUEBEC Canadian Pacific Hotelsof history up here—about more than my head can hold, and I've read and taken notes7 until my eyes demand a rest. So I'm going back to New York8 tomorrow.
The day before I left New York the young man at my bank, who married Nell Stackhouse9's daughter (you remember I told you and father10 all about this young man last winter) well, he came to my hotel with some bonds I had bought and told me that Jim Stackhouse11 died last winter. I'm so sorry I never wrote to him—always meant to. But life drives me so hard that I just can't keep up with it, mother, and that's the truth. I'll never be able to write any more books unless people let me alone. I've been owing the President of Bohemia12 a letter for two months—I never feel energy enough to thank him for his beautiful letter about The Archbishop13. His name is Masaryck14 he reads English perfectly and writes it fairly well.
I'll write you from New York very soon.With love to you all Willie