The village school was a fine school […] He learned his reading and had a fair copperplate hand.

[…] he was broodingly unable to see even the most ivied tower as anything but a pile of stones till, inexplicably, the miracle of recovered hope and courage transformed him.

The first two are so vivid that even at this date, over two years later, it is — and I write with frank candor — difficult, if not impossible, for me to discount or pass them from memory as a pure figmentation of the subconscious.

We may fairely cry bo-bo-boe; it may well make us hoarse, but it will nothing advaunce it.