For forty-five years he had lived in London, so there was almost nothing of Priorsford left in him--nothing, indeed, except the desire to see it again before he died.
They had been forty-five quite happy years for Peter Reid.

Money-making was the thing he enjoyed most in this world.

It took the place to him of wife and children and friends.

He did not really care much for the things money could buy; he only cared to heap up gold, to pull down barns and build greater ones.

Then suddenly one day he was warned that his soul would be required of him--that soul of his for which he had cared so little.