Often he had experienced the same feeling when listening to music.

Her sweetness, her goodness, appealed to what he guessed must be the noblest in him.

And she was only nineteen.

Suddenly his heart swelled, the ache came to his throat and the smart to his eyes.
"Blixy," he said, just above a whisper; "Blixy, wish I was a better sort of chap." "That's the beginning of being better, isn't it, Condy ?" she answered, turning toward him, her chin on her hand.
"It does seem a pity," he went on, "that when you WANT to do the right, straight thing, and be clean and fine, that you can't just BE it, and have it over with.

It's the keeping it up that's the grind." "But it's the keeping it up, Condy, that makes you WORTH BEING GOOD when you finally get to be good; don't you think?
It's the keeping it up that makes you strong; and then when you get to be good you can make your goodness count.