I had visited it frequently during my boyhood.

Six years had passed since then: _I_ was a wreck, but nought had changed in those savage and enduring scenes.
I performed the first part of my journey on horseback.

I afterwards hired a mule, as the more sure-footed and least liable to receive injury on these rugged roads.

The weather was fine; it was about the middle of the month of August, nearly two months after the death of Justine, that miserable epoch from which I dated all my woe.

The weight upon my spirit was sensibly lightened as I plunged yet deeper in the ravine of Arve.