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Show 93, Jeffries, Islamorada [Section 2] architect, a new shipwright home on Big Pine, home. The red ball of sun moved overhead. It was the quiet and idle time in her big steamboat gothic house, and perhaps a gracious effort had been made so that he wouldn't see any men. Still, for a moment, there and gone, evanescing into the bright motes, there had been a pink conch face in a dormer. Across the portico past weedy rattan chairs on hardwood floors. And inside, gleaned from the unfortunate Dauphin, the house bold in second empire furniture. At a secretary an old woman writes some memoir on rice paper. "Hello Grandmother--I'd like you to meet Mister Dorian Clayton." On the wide rear stoop little Marjoram sat shucking clams. For a while they were up talking where the living room had been done on the second story, after the manner of the old homes in St. Augustine, and they walked where the women had turned the garden out to the rear of the house, Spanish-style. There were all the new flowers, bougainvillea, frangipani, and he grew sleepy. All the rooms--it's like a hotel, he thought, like the old five and ten mile post houses north out of Pittsburgh; he heard the faint sounds of them cooking below, and as he napped off the garden smells gave way to purees, papilote and mace |