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.

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.

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