And all this while I have not found the city.' And he turned and went his own way alone, leaving them astonished.
And yet this would scarcely parallel the intensity of Will's feeling for the plain.

If he could only go far enough out there, he felt as if his eyesight would be purged and clarified, as if his hearing would grow more delicate, and his very breath would come and go with luxury.

He was transplanted and withering where he was; he lay in a strange country and was sick for home.

Bit by bit, he pieced together broken notions of the world below: of the river, ever moving and growing until it sailed forth into the majestic ocean; of the cities, full of brisk and beautiful people, playing fountains, bands of music and marble palaces, and lighted up at night from end to end with artificial stars of gold; of the great churches, wise universities, brave armies, and untold money lying stored in vaults; of the high-flying vice that moved in the sunshine, and the stealth and swiftness of midnight murder.

I have said he was sick as if for home: the figure halts.