Yes indeed, I say to myself, pen in hand, I can keep hold of the thread and let it lead me back to the first impression.

The little story is all there, I can touch it from point to point; for the thread, as I call it, is a row of coloured beads on a string.

None of the beads are missing--at least I think they're not: that's exactly what I shall amuse myself with finding out.
I had been all summer working hard in town and then had gone down to Folkestone for a blow.

Art was long, I felt, and my holiday short; my mother was settled at Folkestone, and I paid her a visit when I could.

I remember how on this occasion, after weeks in my stuffy studio with my nose on my palette, I sniffed up the clean salt air and cooled my eyes with the purple sea.