troubles over for at least seve

resemblance the cottage had to an English inn was the signboard out
in the road.
With the best
will in the world, and the liveliest financial encouragement
from Mr. Twist, the architect couldn't in three weeks turn a wooden
Californian cottage into an ancient red-brick Elizabethan pothouse. He
got a thatched roof on to it by a miracle of hustle,
but the wooden walls
remained; he also

found a real antique heavy oak front door studded with
big rusty nailheads in a San Francisco curiosity shop, that would
serve,
he said, as a basis for any wished-for hark-back
later on when there was more time to the old girl's epoch--thus
did he refer to Great Eliza and her spacious days--and meanwhile it
gave the building, he alleged, a considerable air; but as this door in
that fine
climate was hooked op