The judge, however, was an eager idealist; he still dreamed of Utopia, he still believed in millenniums.

Mahaffy didn't and couldn't.

Memory was the scarecrow in the garden of his hopes--you could wear out your welcome anywhere.

In the end the world reckoned your cost, and unless you were prepared to make some sort of return for its bounty, the cold shoulder came to be your portion instead of the warm handclasp.
"Hannibal has found friends among people of the first importance.

I have made it my business to inquire into their standing, and I find that young lady is heiress to a cool half million.