There was in his nature a deep sense of the past: a reverence for things that had gathered strength and dignity from time.

The golden hours of life leave no sharp outlines to which the memory can cling: no spoken words remain—nor even little gestures and thoughts; only a deep gratitude that lingers on impervious to time.

It was good to have a home that called you: a home that made you feel a little unhappy when you went up to sleep in a strange bed on the first night away—that lay restfully in the background of your holiday, then called you again when it was time to return.