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Image from page 82 of "When winter comes to Main Street" (1922) | by Internet Archive Book Images
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Image from page 82 of "When winter comes to Main Street" (1922)

Identifier: whenwintercomest01over

Title: When winter comes to Main Street

Year: 1922 (1920s)

Authors: Overton, Grant Martin, 1887-1930 Doran, Firm, Publishers, New York

Subjects: English literature American literature

Publisher: New York, George H. Doran Company

Contributing Library: The Library of Congress

Digitizing Sponsor: Sloan Foundation



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Text Appearing Before Image:

er VREBECCA WEST: AN ARTIST WIETHER Rebecca West is writing re-views of books or dramatic criticism ornovels she is an artist, above everything. I havebeen reading delightedly the pages of her newnovel, The Judge, It is Miss Wests second novel.One is somewhat prepared for it by the excellenceof her first, The Return of the Soldier, publishedin 1918. Somewhat, but not adequately. Perhaps I am prejudiced. You see, I have beenin Edinburgh, and though it was the worst seasonof the year—the period when, as Robert LouisStevenson says, that Northern city has the vilestclimate under Heaven—nevertheless, the charmand dignity of that old town captured me at thevery moment when a penetrating Scotch winterrain was coming in direct contact with my bones.I was, I might as well confess, soaked and chilledas no New York winter snowstorm ever wettedand chilled me. It did not matter; here was thelong sweep of Princes Street with its gay shops onone side and its deep valley on the other; acros* [78]


Text Appearing After Image:

REBECCA WEST [79] REBECCA WEST: AN ARTIST the valley the tenements of the Royal Mile liftedthemselves up—the Royal Mile, which runs al-ways uphill from the Palace that is Holyrood tothe height that is the Castle. Talk about ges-tures ! The whole city of Edinburgh is a match-less gesture. And so, when I began the first page of TheJudge, it was a grand delight to find myself backin the city of the East Wind: It was not because life was not good enoughthat Ellen Melville was crying as she sat by thewindow. The world, indeed, even so much of itas could be seen from her window, was extrava-gantly beautiful. The office of Mr. MactavishJames, Writer to the Signet, was in one of thosedecent grey streets that lie high on the Northwardslope of Edinburgh New Town, and Ellen waslooking up the sidestreet that opened just oppositeand revealed, menacing as the rattle of spears,the black rock and bastions of the Castle againstthe white beamless glare of the southern sky.And it was the hour of the c



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