In France That Is The

Paris In The Early Morning Has A Cheerful, Bustling Aspect, A Promise Of Delicious Things To Come, A Positive Smell Of Coffee And Croissants, Quite Peculiar To Itself. The People Welcome A New Day As If They Were Certain Of Liking It, The Shopkeepers Pull Up Their Blinds Serene In The Expectation Of Good Trade, The Workers Go Happily To Their Work, The People Who Have Sat Up All Night In Night-clubs Go Happily To Their Rest, The Orchestra Of Motor-car Horns, Of Clanking Trams, Of Whistling Policemen Tunes Up For The Daily Symphony, And Everywhere Is Joy.

Sun, Silence, And Happiness.

Life Itself, She Thought, As She Went Upstairs To Dress For Dinner, Was Stranger Than Dreams And Far, Far More Disordered.

I Do Love Translating; It Is The Pure Pleasure Of Writing Without The Misery Of Inventing.

One's Emotions Are Intensified In Paris—one Can Be More Happy And Also More Unhappy Here Than In Any Other Place. But It Is Always A Positive Source Of Joy To Live Here, And There Is Nobody So Miserable As A Parisian In Exile From His Town.