A Japanese House

The story of building a home

MY MODEST EQUIVALENT to the concept of moving a mountain, when I was a child, was the relocation of a building. The centre of the home where I grew up was a one-teacher school my parents had bought for removal and attached to an already existing cottage. The classroom became our kitchen. Of course I didn’t analyse it then, but the relocation and change of function represented flexible thinking, for me. If you can do that, I thought, what can’t you think of doing?

Decades later, I’d returned from living near Kobe in Japan and was back in my own inner-city cottage in Brisbane when I was woken around 3 am by the sounds and lights of a house being moved. A truck with a timber house on its flatbed was inching down the long, winding hill of my street, brakes straining. Men with torches shouted and knocked on doors demanding that parked cars be moved. Others used long, T-shaped poles to push tree branches out of the way. I could hear the mournful song of the truck’s creeping retreat from the city for at least two more hours, as it carried the house further away from its past.

That week, curious about portable timber buildings, I began looking at the history of settler houses in Australia and found in John Archer’s Building a Nation (Collins, 1987) that a Japanese house was moved to Brisbane from Kobe in the 1870s. I was astonished, just as many people are if it’s mentioned now. And my questions at the time were those other people ask too: where was it? Is it still there? When was it again?

I found some answers. The house does still exist, but is no longer in Brisbane. It was prefabricated in Japan in 1886 (not in the 1870s), modelled on a particular old Japanese house, then erected in the suburb of New Farm for Australian-born George W Paul, a judge of the District Court of Queensland, who thought it would suit the climate. Someone said he’d bought the actual house he stayed in for several months in Japan. Or maybe it was part of a venture importing Japanese houses, though more likely he was an eccentric Japanophile; possibly both. The house was saved from demolition in the 1960s, but dismantled and rebuilt almost fifteen hundred kilometres north in the town of Ingham, where it remains now. (Unlike a Queenslander house, it couldn’t be transported whole.) When I found a Master of Architecture thesis on Paul’s house by Damien Dewar, I thought there was no point covering the same ground, and dropped the  search.¹

But questions hung on: how did this Judge Paul come up with this project in the 1880s? And by implication: what else did he do? What was he doing in Japan? So I decided to continue to hunt out the story, tracking the man to find my way through to the house.

It was a path that turned out to be no shortcut. No one knew much about him and I could not find traces of his direct voice: no diaries or personal letters. The directions I took often had nothing to do with the house. But I could see in his approach to the law as a barrister and later as a District Court judge that he was humane, and in his other affiliations and memberships I began to see a progressive and modern Australian man, highly outgoing, curious and articulate, a bit eccentric, whose interests spread far beyond his career.

Despite being a judge, Paul was not a wealthy man. Salaries paid to judges of the District Court carried no pension and were much less than those of Supreme Court judges. Both were less than well-established barristers could earn. And since (when the house was built) he was in his late forties, suffering from poor health and supporting his wife and three sons in London as well as one son at school in Brisbane, money was on his mind. Such a man, I thought, may be just the person to try importing Japanese houses as a money-making venture if he believed the designs were good and innovative.


GEORGE PAUL HAD been seriously ill in 1886 and travelled to Japan on sick leave to try the air for his recuperation. He spent five weeks of the northern summer staying in an old house, impressed by how cool it remained in muggy weather, as well as how art and utility were integrated in the house: how ‘built-in’ it  was. ‘Tout ensemble was how he put it.

Domesticity didn’t come naturally to Paul: he had to work at acquiring it. As a dedicated clubman – he lived at clubs for years at a stretch while his wife was in England – he was an unlikely person to be planning or building a house at all, but when he did it was likely to be unusual. He hadn’t been searching for housing designs on his trip, but the flexible-plan airiness of a traditional Japanese house opened his eyes. He saw it as a possible first step towards a new Australian architecture. So before he left Japan he ordered a house, which was the basic structure, with some variations, as well as bespoke ‘extras’. All the timber was to be pre-cut and test assembled, then packed flat and sent on a ship with builders to erect it. The modularity of Japanese architecture was made for such a scheme.

When I returned to Kobe to see friends, I persuaded two of them to come with me to the chilly Kobe City Archives, where we found small snippets of information in both Japanese- and English-language newspapers, including names for the building contractor (Kanō) and an Englishman (Wilkinson) who was involved. A piece in the Kobe Yushin Nippo newspaper confirmed that Yeddo, as Paul would later name the house, was the trial house for setting up a business, not for his own home.

Through contacts I met Rick Taniguchi, who was researching that period of Kobe’s local history. He didn’t know about the house sent to Brisbane, but he knew who Kanō and Wilkinson were.

Kanō Jiroemon, just into his thirties, was the eighth head of the Kanō family whose main business was making sake, though one of the first of the family to settle in the area had been a lumber dealer. Their land in the village of Mikage along the rail line east of Kobe, with a sake brewery and several other buildings, ran down to the shoreline where children went to swim in the waters of beautiful Osaka Bay.

The family’s sake business thrived under Kanō’s progressive stewardship as he tested modern technological methods to improve the sake his family had been producing since the mid-seventeenth century. Today two branches of the Kanō family continue to make sake under the Hakutsuru and Kiku-Masamune brands.

Kanō supplied or sub-contracted the builders and most of the materials for the house Paul ordered. The model for Yeddo was probably a house owned by the Kanō family – though a dogged mistiness still hovers over its origin – but one of theirs was being used as a jinya, an inn for Japanese government officials travelling on business. Paul described the two-hundred-year-old house he stayed in as a ‘daimyo’s house’, but there hadn’t been a daimyo (a feudal lord) in that area for more than two centuries, so I imagine the term was used, in the face of cultural and language paraphrasing, to mean the house of a leading man in the area.

J Clifford Wilkinson was a Yorkshireman whose name first appears in the 1878 Kobe register of foreigners, when he had some involvement with woollen mills. By the mid-1880s he was contracted as an advisor to the Japanese government to operate EH Hunter’s rice mill, supplying rice polished for making sake, among other uses. Wilkinson was in Japan for the long haul. Like his boss, Hunter, he’d marry a Japanese woman and they’d raise a family there. It was probably Wilkinson who’d arranged Paul’s stay beyond the foreign settlement in the old house, and he was the man on the ground in Japan while the new house was being prepared.

In the National Library in Canberra I went through the papers of researcher David Sissons, hoping to find the names of the five builders – three carpenters and two plasterers from Mikage – who travelled in steerage from Kobe with the complete house ‘in dovetail’ – that is, ready to erect.² They were among the first couple of hundred Japanese to travel to Australia. I didn’t find names, but I found a context for their intrepid journey.


FOR MORE THAN two centuries, Japan was largely isolated under the sakuko (‘closed country’) policy. Chances are that before this Queensland-Japan joint venture arose, no one the builders knew had ever returned from another country to give them any idea of what they might find. Just twenty years before, Japanese were prohibited on pain of death from leaving their country; even fishermen accidently blown out to sea were not permitted to return. That edict had been revoked in the 1860s, and Japanese could apply for passports to travel for some purposes. Still, in the mid-1880s (when applications began to surge), the Japanese Foreign Ministry warned that Australia was so unknown and uncivilised that Japanese nationals travelling there risked being deceived and exploited. Worse, without the language or cultural familiarity, they exposed their loved ones back home to the possibility of bitter grief.³

So it must have been heartening for the builders to have Wilkinson travelling with them. Because the age of global communication via telegraph wires and under-ocean cables had begun, Wilkinson could send a message to Paul as they were loading the ship and were about to leave Kobe. Within a few days in Brisbane a block of land in New Farm changed hands as the site for the approaching house. Not, however, bought by Judge Paul but by Irish-born Terence Ahern, railway contractor and businessman.

The site was a sloping corner block overlooking a stretch of the meandering Brisbane River towards Kangaroo Point, and beyond that across the river again to the centre of Brisbane. It was bordered on three sides by Bowen Terrace, Langshaw Street and Gilbey Lane. Ships could unload at the landing stage of James Campbell & Sons’ Langshaw Marble Lime Works and planing mill.

When Judge Paul returned from Japan, an ‘intelligent Japanese lad’ travelled with him.⁴ By the time the builders arrived this lad had been in Brisbane for seven months, polishing his English, getting to know the place, maybe working at a job. Japanese then required neither passports to enter Queensland nor work permits. I wonder if he was related to the builders or a younger member of the Kanō family, getting experience so he could run the proposed house-importing business should it succeed. Paul couldn’t have done it on his own: apart from a full workload, he spent weeks at a time away on court circuits around Queensland’s south-west.

At any rate, one overcast day near the end of a very wet April, the travellers and many bundles of house materials landed from the Brisbane River. At first the builders camped on-site under makeshift shelters. Perhaps the ground was prepared in some way before they arrived, but they mapped out where on the sloping block the main building of the house would go – it faced Langshaw Street, close to the boundary – and where the other buildings would be: bathhouse, kitchen with servants’ rooms connected to the main part by a covered walkway, and a tea house. The way they positioned it on the block left room for a second house. Once they assembled the satellite buildings, they lived there during the construction. Wilkinson didn’t stay long in Brisbane. He’d done his bit project-managing in Japan and delivering the house to Australia while continuing to work for Hunter & Co.

The main house was about eighteen metres by fourteen and a half, single storeyed, raised off the ground a little higher than customary in Japan, with an exterior of unpainted timber and white plaster. It had a distinctive dark-tiled roof with elaborately carved end-tiles and a step-down over the surrounding veranda (engawa). The engawa functioned as a flow-through area connecting inner spaces to the outside, free of fixed walls or handrails. Sliding storm shutters (amado) stacked ingeniously in storage boxes (amadoboko) could close in part or all of the engawa, useful for security and in Brisbane’s cooler months.

The build took longer than Judge Paul expected, he told a journalist. It continued right through that winter of 1887, even though the house had been test-assembled in Japan. The interior, described in terms of Western functions, consisted of five bedrooms, two drawing rooms, a dining room, storeroom, pantry, hall and a bathroom and water closet. When the building was watertight, the builders installed the bespoke extras carefully packed in Mikage. Artists had painted delicate landscapes and other images on the sliding panels (fusuma) which doubled as doors and walls, with one landscape painting continuing through from one room to the next. They’d carved timber ventilators (ramma) into fretwork friezes representing scenes from around Japan. The usual Victorian clutter of bric-a-brac and framed engravings suspended from picture rails was replaced with simplicity and a sense of spaciousness by these built-in artworks.

Right from first planning there had been adjustments to make the house functional for a Western lifestyle: this was a practical endeavour to find solutions for living in Brisbane. Paul’s venture borrowed good design developed elsewhere, to trial and adapt it in practice for local use. It wasn’t one of those attempts to preserve aspects of traditional life as Japan modernised under Western impact. Others made that their mission, for example American Edward S Morse in his influential 1886 book Japanese Homes and Their Surroundings.

The New Farm house was, as far as I’ve found, the first Japanese house to leave Japan for the West (or to anywhere) as a home. Tea houses had been sent, initially as part of International Expositions and then remained behind to be used as garden pavilions. There was a touring Japanese Village Exhibition, run by a promoter named Willard, in Brisbane at about the same time as Paul’s house arrived. Willard advertised ‘real Japanese houses’ as part of the display, but they were small demountable structures assembled indoors in the Exhibition Hall, from which Japanese craftspeople demonstrated and sold what they made.

A wealthy Frenchman named Hugues Krafft (a friend of Morse) had ordered a two-roomed pavilion that was pre-assembled in Tokyo and then dismantled and shipped with a team of Japanese carpenters to reconstruct it on his estate near Reims in France during 1884. The timber structure, raised on stumps and with a veranda at the front, is at first glance similar to some of the two-room cottages built in early Brisbane.⁵ But it wasn’t lived in; Krafft used it for meditation and invited friends to drink tea there dressed in kimonos. With his gardeners, he designed an extensive surrounding Japanese stroll garden.

Judge Paul’s ideas were different. I can see quite clearly that from his experience in Japan he pinpointed what he thought a functional modern home for a hot climate could be: open, airy and spacious, with as little furniture as possible. Calming to look at, restful to be in, easy on the pocket, contrasting with the heavy elaboration of typical Victorian interiors. Variations from the old Japanese house it was modeled on included higher lintels, adapting inside spaces for modern bathroom facilities and rejecting tatami (traditional straw matting) as floor covering because it was too delicate to withstand wear from furniture legs and boots. The customary stone in-fill around the posts anchoring the structure was abandoned because of freight costs, not lifestyle. Judge Paul’s only obligation, The Brisbane Courier said, was to pay for the builders’ food in Brisbane. But there was more involved than that: add his responsibility for the Japanese lad, and add the cost of extra materials sourced in Brisbane, which may have turned out to be higher than he anticipated because Japanese-style roof tiles were manufactured locally. James Campbell & Sons manufactured tiles for the house using their new steam-powered machinery and kiln in the Brisbane suburb of Albion, but no tiles were stamped with their brand. They made them because, for some reason, the number landed from Japan was insufficient. Breakage was likely: they’d transshipped at Hong Kong and again in Sydney. Rick Taniguchi suggested another explanation too. He said that the jinya (the old house in the Kanō compound) was demolished about the time Yeddo was being prepared – perhaps because it was being prepared. The builders may have brought to Brisbane as many roof tiles as could be salvaged from the jinya, and only those. Old roof tiles were valued because over time they became more water-resistant.

Whatever the reason for the shortfall, Campbell & Sons copied the imported ones even down to the markings and signature. This surprising substitution of local tiles was forgotten and not re-discovered until very recently. It wasn’t exactly a secret at the time Yeddo was built, but who later could guess it? It had been so often repeated in descriptions that all the materials for the house came from Japan.

But when a team of Japanese artisans began removing the roof of the house in Ingham in 2013 for repair, they uncovered a puzzle: there were two kinds of roof tiles, both ostensibly made by Sojiro tilers from Hiroshima, but from two different types of clay and of slightly different sizes. I searched for an explanation and found the answer in a newspaper article.⁶ Producing tiles locally must have added to Paul’s costs but simplified the prospect of building subsequent houses.


AFTER THE BUILDERS completed the house sometime in September of 1887, they gathered up their tools and travelled home unaccompanied. Local tradesmen installed bathroom facilities, built the front steps, and added a surrounding fence and timber battens to close in under the house. There was no attempt to make the garden Japanese. The street face of the house, with its white battens and picket fence, wasn’t so different from nearby homes. A photograph of the south side (see title image: Photograph by Alec Elmslie, provided by the grandchildren of Mary Elizabeth Elmslie 1873–1959), taken a dozen years later, shows a hybrid house that appears Japanese from the veranda up but like a local Queenslander in its elevated battened base and informal garden.

By November the builders were safely back in Mikage, waiting to hear whether to begin preparing another house. About the same time, Judge Paul returned to Brisbane from his customary month-long circuit and invited friends, including journalists, to view the house.

Journalists were surprised and delighted by what they found, including the quality of the joinery. The Telegraph pointed to the roughness of the colonial carpentry of the front steps compared with the exquisite accuracy of Japanese work.⁷ But to progressive Victorians, the most eye-opening part of the design was how integrated utility and beauty could be. ‘Extraordinary examples of art applied to a mechanical process’, The Brisbane Courier said about the fretwork.⁸ The subtle interior design shone – sometimes literally – as a beautiful surface or material served a utilitarian purpose. Silver leaf on cupboard doors caught and reflected late afternoon light back into the space; shoji (timber and translucent paper screens) let light through but maintained privacy. Viewers were impressed by the free flow of the houseplan from veranda to veranda, past glimpses of delicate paintings. Their verdict overall? A remarkable house.

Until then, Paul had maintained the fiction it was intended as his own home. As journalists praised it, he announced that his plans had unexpectedly changed and that the house would, after all, be for sale. His enthusiasm for the house was genuine enough: perhaps it had been his plan all along to live in one similar after testing the market.

The auction was held in sultry January. Advertisements emphasised durability, economy of the built-in aspects and how well the house suited the climate. But it was passed in, and the planned joint venture was therefore abandoned. I haven’t found any contemporary thoughts on why the house didn’t find a buyer, and no indication of a reserve price. Perhaps there would have been a more successful outcome if an architect had been part of the planning process, providing the weight of expertise to the venture.

Architect GHM Addison sketched the interior for The Boomerang prior to the auction.⁹ A dozen years later on the eve of the new century when Addison was asked to comment on the future of Australian architecture, he mentioned two examples of developments in domestic architecture in Queensland. One was how verandas were used as living spaces rather than add-ons, as in southern colonies; and the other was that Judge Paul’s Japanese house had opened a way for new domestic architecture. Addison blamed lack of follow-up on the public’s apathy towards innovation.¹⁰

The Japanese lad who’d travelled with Paul stayed on for the auction, but returned to Japan not long after, guiding Tom Finney of Finney & Isles department store on his first buying trip in Japan. He had been away from home for more than eighteen months. Judge Paul, meanwhile, took occupancy of Yeddo. He took out a mortgage, bought the land from Ahern and presumably paid whatever was agreed for the house to Kanō.

The design of the house was one thing; how it was lived in was another. There had been the pre-auction rhetoric about the economy of living with built-in decoration and without having to buy (much) furniture. And Addison’s drawings of the interior of the uninhabited house, but with Paul’s collection of Japanese bronzes and ceramics in situ, helped generate the fable that the judge lived there in a Japanese manner. With what I had found, I thought this was possible but unlikely.

I hadn’t found any images of the house while Paul owned it, apart from those drawings by Addison. The first good photographs of the interior I’d seen were taken in 1962 when it was empty once again and being dismantled.¹¹ Then someone searching their family history contacted me with photographs taken around 1899 that they’d discovered labelled ‘Judge Paul’s house’ in a family album.

The photographs revealed how the judge had furnished the sitting rooms with cane or rattan furniture, typically used for verandas in Queensland and for interiors in southern Asia and the Pacific. All the furniture was light and airy in both amount and style. The space looked markedly uncluttered even compared to fashionable ‘artistic’ interiors of the time, which likewise relied on rattan furniture and Japanese objects.

But an odd thing happened to public perception of the house. Before long its potential value as a source of design ideas was forgotten, and it was seen instead as an exotic folly. It was as if the original intention was retrospectively revised, even to some extent by Judge Paul himself, who enjoyed the cachet of difference owning Yeddo gave him and played up its singularity by inviting celebrities visiting Brisbane to afternoon tea.¹² He lived there quite contentedly for the rest of his life, apart from two years when he was working in Townsville. He died there in December 1909, with two of his sons by his side. The description of the furniture sold after his death shows that in his last few years he’d been collecting antiques and heavier furniture.¹³


THE NEXT OWNER was building contractor John Cockburn.¹⁴ Then bookmaker George Maxted. One of them replaced the front picket fence and gate with an ornamental gate and metal and brick wall, and clipped the trees to seem more in keeping with a Japanese-themed exterior. Inside was a different story: as far as I can make out, no one has ever lived in the Japanese house in a traditional or even pretend-Japanese way, apart from a bit of dressing up for the camera.

During the determinedly modern 1930s, an upgrade of the interior was featured by Truth newspaper on their page for home lovers. Truth made a point of comparing what they called the modernity of up-to-date Australian furniture with the quaintness of the past. To clinch the contrast they said Judge Paul’s lifestyle was completely Japanese even down to his cooking utensils and the flowers and shrubs in his garden.¹⁵

In the 1940s, Austrian architect Karl Langer published his scientific analysis of the essentials of subtropical architecture and town planning for the tropics in Brisbane.¹⁶ He championed modernist ideas against the shortcomings he saw in vernacular practices. When postwar prefabrication was popular – and Queensland Country Life mentioned the Japanese house as Queensland’s first prefab – Langer spoke favourably about Japanese houses in relation to Australian conditions. He must have known of the New Farm house but didn’t refer to it specifically. By then it was no longer a home, but the state headquarters for the Queensland Country Women’s Association.

A Sydney developer bought the house and land in 1961 from the QCWA in order to build a block of brick flats on the land. The house was offered for removal at demolition value to the City Council, the National Trust and the University of Queensland, but none took it up. So it was auctioned, again. At the auction, The Telegraph says, two businessmen offered almost half the money needed to relocate the house as a tourist attraction, but it was too little, too late. The house – déjà vu – was passed in.

In post-auction negotiations, Dr Pamela Markwell bought the house with just three weeks to remove it from the site. Lecturer WH Carr and students from UQ’s School of Architecture dismantled it. The old roof tiles and the thick, wide, beautifully grained and fragrant timbers moved north again, from Brisbane to Ingham.

The house was re-erected – on a concrete slab – by local builders, and had a fresh start as a home, set in a luxuriant tropical garden. No confusion, this time, about whether it was a speculative test case or a home or a folly. Dr Markwell laboriously removed coats of noxious varnish, sanding timber inside and out, back to bare wood. The house’s dim interior, high ceilings and surrounding veranda reminded her, she said, of her childhood home, built in 1900 in Brisbane. After a decade in the house, she wrote to David Sissons in terms Judge Paul would have recognised: ‘We do not live in Japanese style – and the house itself is rather spoilt by a superabundance of heavy Victorian furniture – however before we moved into the house and while it was still unfurnished it had a most fascinating aura of peace and tranquillity.’¹⁷ By then, aspects of Japanese design had entered the vocabulary of Western architecture via other paths.

This transplanted and translated Japanese house – a rare and beautiful building – has survived well beyond the hundred years the builder promised it would, with the care of a few key people. More than fifty years after Dr Markwell saved it from demolition, the house remains within the Markwell family. It has been the home of architect Hugh Markwell and his wife Jan Cattoni for more than ten years, and the story continues with their ongoing preservation and repair work. The house copes well with the climate in tropical and cyclone-prone Ingham, though the technical details of its construction mean that maintenance is a challenge. In 2017, the Japanese House Appeal Committee, led by Hugh and Jan, won a National Trust Queensland Heritage Silver Award for excellence of conservation work.

There are probably secrets about the life of this house yet to be found, covered over and forgotten like the decorative roof tile that appeared from behind some greenery during a recent onslaught on the lush garden. But over and above being either a showcase or a story to tell, this unusual home has been a practical space for living, tested by the day-to-day routine of individuals. Its skilfully orchestrated spaces continue to be an evocative setting for the light and shade of people’s lives.



This story draws on research into the life of George William Paul (1839-1909).

Barker, J. 2011. ‘Judge George W Paul’s Japanese house: a case study’. The XXVIIIth International Conference of the Society of Architectural Historians, Australia and New Zealand, SAHANZ. [Online]. Available:

Barker, J. 2017. ‘Localisation of a Japanese House in Brisbane, circa 1899’. 21st Annual Work in Progress (WiP) Conference: Snapshots. University of Queensland: unpublished; The Japanese House

  1. Dewar, D. 1999. A Japanese House in Brisbane.Master of Architecture, University of Queensland.
  2. 1887. Ordering a Japanese style house (A foreigner in Australia). Kobe Yushin Nippo No.1065, November 25, p.3.
  3. Sissons, DCS & Horwitz, Solis. 1950, Papers of D.C.S. Sissons, 1950-2006 [manuscript]. Series 1, File 16.
  4. 1888 ‘Christmas Tide’, Morning Bulletin (Rockhampton, Qld: 1878–1954), 21 December, p. 5, viewed 10 May 2018,
  5. See
  6. 1887 ‘J. Campbell & Sons’ Pottery Works.’, Queensland Figaro and Punch (Brisbane, Qld: 1885–1889), 26 November, p. 17. (The Lady Supplement to Queensland Figaro), viewed 05 May 2017,
  7. 1887 ‘Judge Paul’s Praetorium—a la Japan’, The Telegraph (Brisbane, Qld: 1872–1947), 21 December, p. 2, viewed 03 Sep 2018,
  8. 1887 ‘A Japanese House’, The Brisbane Courier (Qld: 1864–1933), 21 December, p. 6, viewed 02 Aug 2011,
  9. Addison, GHM. 1887. Japanese House at New Farm. The Boomerang
  10. 1899 ‘Brisbane Technical College’, The Telegraph (Brisbane, Qld: 1872–1947), 29 June, p. 2, viewed 10 May 2018,
  11. Carr, WH. 1964. The Japanese House, New Farm Brisbane. Architecture in Australia98-100.
  12. 1906 ‘Gossip From Womens’s Clubland’, Queensland Figaro (Brisbane, Qld: 1901–1936), 10 May, p. 7, viewed 14 May 2012,
  13. 1910 ‘Advertising’, The Brisbane Courier (Qld: 1864–1933), 16 February, p. 8, viewed 02 Aug 2011,
  14. Cockburn had not long completed building the Mater Misericordiae Public Hospital designed by Hall and Dods when he bought Yeddo in 1911.
  15. 1935 ‘Page for Home Lovers’, Truth (Brisbane, Qld: 1900–1954), 17 November, p. 34, viewed 05 Sep 2018,
  16. Langer, K. 1944. Sub-tropical Housing. University of Queensland, Brisbane. Available
  17. Sissons, DCS & Horwitz, Solis. 1950, Papers of D.C.S. Sissons, 1950-2006 [manuscript]. Series 15 Box 44 File 2.


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