My Aunt Jane has lived in Devon in the UK for years now, the proprietress of a small cottage where she writes her famous novels. She hosted me one summer when I was in school–old enough to remember the friends I met and the food she cooked–and I can still envision her at the table, seated in a high-backed wing chair, holding court over the party. She had a queenly presence in that chair, but her cacophonous laugh made her approachable. Our Devon Host Chair hearkens back to Aunt Janes seat, though ours is covered in performance linen and includes a small kidney pillow for extra comfort. Jane would approve.
Imported.
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