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the sky. It brought to mind an illustration from "Knights of the Round Table," castles in the clouds, the spires and towers. Here was Camelot, the enchanted city.

Certainly, I was enchanted, utterly under the spell of New York. Its wonders seemed inexhaustible. I thought of Edna St. Vincent Millay's narrow little house in the Village, only 14 feet wide. I, too, had seen the "lovely light" that comes from burning one's candle at both ends and I would not have done otherwise. There were so many things to see, so much to do, so many plays, so much opera and other music, so many interesting people to meet. It was overpowering.

The little Irishman's shout, "Whoa, there," broke into my wool-gathering. The dray drew up in front of our door. He set the crate on the sidewalk. When I said it was to be taken up five floors to the apartment, he rolled his eyes. "May the Lord spare us, young miss," he said,