Nobody except himself had ever known it, but he, although much younger, had had his dreams about the beautiful Abrahama White.

He remembered them as he looked at her, old and dead and majestic, with something like the light of her lost beauty in her still face.

It was like a rose which has fallen in such a windless atmosphere that its petals retain the places which they have held around its heart.
Henry loved his wife, but this before him was associated with something beyond love, which tended to increase rather than diminish it.

When at last they left the room he did what was very unusual with him.

He was reticent, like the ordinary middle-aged New-Englander.