ABSTRACT
I flew with Caroline to Boston on February 2, 1967. Sarah, now seventeen, stayed with our tenants at Newton Road but joined us for the Easter holidays. Cambridge wore a very different look from the summery scene I remembered from my first visit in June 1962. The Charles River was a frozen waste, and snow lay piled by the side of the streets, burying the cars that had been parked there overnight. In one of the longest winters on record it was to snow every alternate day until we left. Every pavement was encrusted with ice, every road deep in slush. Students arrived at lectures stamping the snow from their boots and removing sodden anoraks. Harvard lecture rooms had a special line in central heating pipes that groaned and clanged throughout the day. It was not the best weather for Caroline's damaged joints, but fortunately we had leased the most comfortable apartments in Bradbury Street, belonging to a patrician professor of history, H. Stuart Hughes, who had collected some beautiful furniture as well as a splendid library comprising the historical and literary classics of four European languages. Here she could rest and read, and let the best of Harvard come to her.
