She had been buried in a London suburb, a part then of Nature's breast, but which he had seen lose one after another every feature of freshness.

It was in truth during the moments he stood there that his eyes beheld the place least.

They looked at another image, they opened to another light.

Was it a credible future?
Was it an incredible past?
Whatever the answer it was an immense escape from the actual.
It's true that if there weren't other dates than this there were other memories; and by the time George Stransom was fifty-five such memories had greatly multiplied.

There were other ghosts in his life than the ghost of Mary Antrim.