The ruthless cruelty of old age is not more of a crime than the ruthless cruelty of young children.

Childhood does not yet understand.
Old age ceases to understand.
But some there are among us who have passed beyond childhood, beyond youth, into middle age, in whose brain that little cell still sleeps and gives no sign of waking, though all the other faculties are at their zenith; imagination, intellect, lofty sentiment, religious fervour.
Where they go pain follows.

They leave a little trail of pain behind them, to mark their path through life.

They appear to have come into the world to be ministered to, not to minister.

If love could reach them, call loudly to them from without, it seems as if the dormant cell might wake.