Never moth haunted lamp so persistently.

Ever as he ran, up this pavement and down that, on the soft-sounding soles of his bare feet, the smile on the boy's face grew more and more sleepy, but still he smiled and still he trotted, still paused at the window, and still started afresh.
He was not so much to be pitied as my reader may think.

Never in his life had he yet pitied himself.

The thought of hardship or wrong had not occurred to him.

It would have been difficult--impossible, I believe--to get the idea into his head that existence bore to him any other shape than it ought.