That was a very jolly party on Wednesday: I enjoyed everything: the gay and kindly company, the admirable foodstuffs, even the music; and, if it be true, as I told you, that Covent Garden has shrunk in size since my young days, I am compelled to confess that your box was a larger than I ever saw before.
At this season of excess, he writes on Christmas Day, I am allowed to indulge my passion for chocolates, but not to buy any for myself; and it was most thoughful of you to pander to my taste. Thank you ever so much. And thank you also for your good wishes. . . .
I must be off to mass, but not without first begging you to hand your mother and sister my best wishes for a happy New Year. As to you, I shall see or talk to you before then. . . . My young Sinn Feiner has written a novel[1] which to my mind is a most remarkable production and which will have to be read by you at all costs. It is published in Dublin; and it is doubtful whether a single other copy will find its way to this foreign land.
In April Teixeira and his wife went to
Hove: and on 27. 4. 20 he writes:
It is blowing what-you-may-call-it here: 'arf a
- ↑ Eimar O'Duffy's Wasted Island.
