And all through Crucifixions, cathedrals, table d'hotes, I have been deadly, _deadly_ homesick--homesick as none but one that has been a member of a large family and has been out into the world on his or her own account, for the first time, can understand.

When first I drove away through the park, my sensations were something like those that we all used to experience, on the rare occasions when father, as a treat, took one or other of us out on an excursion with him--the _honor_ great, but the _pleasure_ small.
It seems to myself, as if I had not laughed once since we set off!--yes--_once_ I did, at the recollection of an old joke of Bobby's, that we all thought very silly at the time, but that strikes me as irresistibly funny now that it recurs to me in the midst of strange scenes, and of jokeless foreigners.
After forty, people do not laugh at absolutely _nothing_.

They may be very easily moved to mirth, as, indeed, to do him justice, Sir Roger is; but they do not laugh for the pure physical pleasure of grinning.

The weight of the absolute _tete-a-tete_ of a honey-moon, which has proved trying to a more violent love than mine, is oppressing me.
At home, if I grew tired of talking to one, I could talk to another.

If I waxed weary of Bobby's sea-tales, I might refresh myself with listening to the Brat's braggings about Oxford--with Tou Tou's murdered French lesson: J'aime, I love.
Tu aimes, Thou lovest.
Il aime, He loves.
How many thousand years ago, the labored conjugation of that verb seems to me! _Now_, if I do not converse with Sir Roger, I must remain silent.