It had poured all night, and the contrast was depressing.

A six-footer from Albany was in the sleepy state.

"If I don't pull out soon," he said, "I shall be bedridden.

I want to sleep after breakfast, or bowling, or bath, or my ride or dinner, and really long to go to bed by nine." There has probably been more fine writing and florid rhetoric about California than any other State in the Union.
The Hotel del Coronado is a mammoth hostelry, yet homelike in every part, built in a rectangle with inner court, adorned with trees, flowers, vines, and a fountain encircled by callas; color, pure white, roofs and chimneys red; prevailing woods, oak, ash, pine, and redwood.
All around the inner court a series of suites of rooms, each with its own bath and corner sitting-room--literally "a linked suiteness long drawn out." It is one eighth of a mile from my bedroom to my seat in the dining-room, so that lazy people are obliged to take daily constitutionals whether they want to or not, sighing midway for trolley accommodations.

The dining-room may safely be called roomy, as it seats a thousand guests, and your dearest friends could not be recognized at the extreme end.