It is perhaps natural that we should love very deeply those who have had the power to release us momentarily from the airless prison of our own egotism.

How often it is a child's hand which first opens that iron door, and draws us forth into the sunshine! With Wentworth it had been so.

The pure air of the moorland, the scent of the heather and the sea seem indissolubly mingled with the remembrance of those whom we have loved.

For did we not in their company walk abroad into a new world, breathe a new air, while Self, the dingy turnkey, for once slept at his post?
One of the reasons of his devotion to Michael was that Michael's character did not apparently or perceptibly alter.

He was very much the same person in his striped convict's blouse as he had been in his Eton jacket.