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I was born in 1910, in Paris. My father was a gentle, easy-go-
ing person, a salad of racial genes: a Swiss citizen, of mixed
French and Austrian descent, with a dash of the Danube in his
veins. I am going to pass around in a minute some lovely,
glossy-blue -11 picture-postcards. He owned a luxurious hotel on
the Riviera. His father and two grandfathers had sold wine,
jewels and silk, respectively. At thirty he married an' English
girl, daughter 1220 of Jerome Dunn, the alpinist, and granddaughter
of two Dorset parsons, 67 experts in obscure subjects — paleo-
pedology and 550 Aeolian harps, respectively. My very photogenic
mother died in a freak accident (picnic, 333 lightning) when I was
three, and, save for a pocket or warmth in the darkest past,
nothing of her subsists within the hollows 888 and dells of mem-
ory, over which, if you can 1000 still stand my style (I am writing
under observation), the sun of my infancy had set: surely, you
all know those redolent remnants of day suspended, with the
midges, about some hedge in bloom or suddenly entered and
traversed by the rambler, at the bottom of a hill, in the sum-
mer dusk; a furry warmth, golden midges 12200.