I never hear him speak of anything else.

Your father walks now; and by the time you are here he will be able to drive on Fifth Avenue and in the new Central Park.

But he is not the man who left this city at the head of his regiment.

His hair and moustache are white as snow; there are a thousand tiny wrinkles on his hands and features.

All that heavy colour is gone; only a slight flush remains on his thin face.