I was about to say that I had known the Celebrity from the time he wore kilts. But I see I will have to amend that, because he was not a celebrity then, nor, indeed, did he achieve fame until some time after I left New York for the West.
“He” was a golden pippin, bearing bushels of fruit sweet and luscious, though rather small; if anybody could have had the heart to scrape the picturesque covering of moss and lichen off the hoary boughs, then whitewash and greaseband the trunk, the apples would have been bigger, though never sweeter.
The fork-grinders of Sheffield worked in an atmosphere of stone and metal particles, where lung disease was endemic […].
At Siena I was tabled in the house of one Alberto Scipioni
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