A house is never a home until we have crusted it with the spoils of a hundred lives besides those of our own past.

See what these are and you can tell what the occupant is.
I had no idea,--said the Professor,--until I pulled up my domestic establishment the other day, what an enormous quantity of roots I had been making during the years I was planted there.

Why, there wasn't a nook or a corner that some fibre had not worked its way into; and when I gave the last wrench, each of them seemed to shriek like a mandrake, as it broke its hold and came away.
There is nothing that happens, you know, which must not inevitably, and which does not actually, photograph itself in every conceivable aspect and in all dimensions.

The infinite galleries of the Past await but one brief process and all their pictures will be called out and fixed forever.

We had a curious illustration of the great fact on a very humble scale.