He was one of the faces that do not change with age.
In his hand was the Amulet--complete and perfect.
He rubbed his other hand across his forehead in the way they were so used to.
'Dreams, dreams!' he said; 'old age is full of them!' 'You've been in dreams with us before now,' said Robert, 'don't you remember ?' 'I do, indeed,' said he.

The room had many more books than the Fitzroy Street room, and far more curious and wonderful Assyrian and Egyptian objects.

'The most wonderful dreams I ever had had you in them.' 'Where,' asked Cyril, 'did you get that thing in your hand ?' 'If you weren't just a dream,' he answered, smiling, you'd remember that you gave it to me.' 'But where did we get it ?' Cyril asked eagerly.
'Ah, you never would tell me that,' he said, 'You always had your little mysteries.

You dear children! What a difference you made to that old Bloomsbury house! I wish I could dream you oftener.

Now you're grown up you're not like you used to be.' 'Grown up ?' said Anthea.
The learned gentleman pointed to a frame with four photographs in it.
'There you are,' he said.
The children saw four grown-up people's portraits--two ladies, two gentlemen--and looked on them with loathing.
'Shall we grow up like THAT ?' whispered Jane.