William Dean Howells 



was a stretto di mano, something bor- 

 dering on an embrace in its cordial 

 properties, if your current story had 

 the good luck to please his good 

 taste. Then he would write not only 

 to say so, but to say why, with close, 

 yet clear reasons, in which the most 

 evasive, the most elusive of acquaint- 

 ance became the most open and im- 

 mediate of friends. One such letter 

 of his goes with that Fortuny of his, 

 which it outvalues in very intrinsic 

 qualities. 



If I seem to be celebrating his 

 friendship as in unusual sort an inti- 

 macy, let me say again that it never 

 was. It was something that could be 

 resumed wherever it was left, with a 

 sense of common ground under the 

 feet, in which there could be no mis- 

 understanding. 



There was somewhere a breakfast 

 before or in between our London 

 meeting and the next, but I cannot 

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