It lay so close to the surface of his own mind at all times that the slightest stir of conversation, like the wind above a secret rose, seemed always about to disclose it.

They were sitting on the porch at Bloombury and the pointed swallows pitched and darted about the eaves.
"It was the smell of the dust that reminded me," said Ellen, "and the wild rose at the turn of the road; you can smell it as plain as plain when the air lifts a little.

Do you remember a picnic that we were invited to and couldn't go?
It was on account of being poor ...

and I was just finding it out.

I found out a good many things that summer; about my always going to be lame and what it would mean to us.