But sometimes I regret that I no longer have a spiritual director like Joseph Boneas.
For the rest, the men around me--except when personal interest is in question and except for a few chatterers who suddenly pour out theories which contain bits taken bodily from the newspapers--the men around me are indifferent to every problem too remote and too profound concerning the succession of inevitable misfortunes which sweep us along.

Beyond immediate things, and especially personal matters, they are prudently conscious of their ignorance and impotence.
One evening I was coming in to sleep in our stable bedroom.

The men lying along its length and breadth on the bundles of straw had been talking together and were agreed.

Some one had just wound it up--"From the moment you start marching, that's enough." But Termite, coiled up like a marmot on the common litter, was on the watch.

He raised his shock of hair, shook himself as though caught in a snare, waved the brass disk on his wrist like a bell and said, "No, that's not enough.