Mama said as she peered through her spectacles at a residence that very much resembled a doll’s house. Mama was prone to understatement and euphemism. “No wonder we had such trouble finding it,” I replied, squinting into the setting sun, whose rays slanted through the narrow spaces between our little brick house and the larger, grander ones on either side. My sister Esther, who was only a few years beyond an interest in dolls, exclaimed, “I think it’s sweet!” Esther was seventeen, prettier than any doll, and spoiled beyond redemption. “Just like a child’s playhouse.” “Yes, indeed, but we are not children,” I pointed out while Esther was busy showing Mama the classical pediment, and soon we went up the walk toward the door, passing through a pair of clipped yews that were the only horticultural embellishment. Mama looked around at the neighboring homes and commented, “The location is considered good, I believe.” Graham Sutton, who had purchased the house, had assured me it was an easy walk to New Bond Street.
