To me, here in her den, the other year was just the other day.

My time in India was little better than a dream to me, while as for angry shots at either end of Africa, it was never I who had been there to hear them.

I must have come by my sticks in some less romantic fashion.

Nothing could convince me that I had ever been many days or miles away from a room that I knew by heart, and found full as I left it of familiar trifles and poignant associations.
That was the shelf devoted to her poets; there was no addition that I could see.

Over it hung the fine photograph of Watts's "Hope," an ironic emblem, and elsewhere one of that intolerably sad picture, his "Paolo and Francesca": how I remembered the wet Sunday when Catherine took me to see the original in Melbury Road! The old piano which was never touched, the one which had been in St.Helena with Napoleon's doctor, there it stood to an inch where it had stood of old, a sort of grand-stand for the photographs of Catherine's friends.