“When we are staggered by the chilly winds of adversity and battered by the raging storms of disappointment and when through our folly and sin we stray into some destructive far country and are frustrated because of the strange feeling of homesickness, we need to know that there is Someone who loves us, cares for us, understands us, and will give us another chance.”
“He’d never had any particular ideas about America. He’d never been very patriotic. It was something you took without even thinking. But now it seemed to him . . . For the first time in his whole life he felt that it would be a little pleasant a little comforting to be in the hands of his own people.”
“Remembering home he suddenly became inward and didn’t want to say any more about all that. He dabbed flakes of croissant on to a finger-end and licked them away.”
“I wanted something to take my mind off homesickness and the fear of death or prison. So I went- yes, and paid another penny for a stool to rest my weary bones, and yet another penny (reckless extravagance!) for a portion of hot roast mutton on a skewer.”
In the evening we went out for a walk in the streets, and went half-price to the Theatre; and next day we went to church at Westminster Abbey, and in the afternoon we walked in the Parks; and I wondered who shod all the horses there, and wished Joe did.
That I could have been at our old church in my old church-going clothes, on the very last Sunday that ever was, seemed a combination of impossibilities, geographical and social, solar and lunar. Yet in the London streets so crowded with people and so brilliantly lighted in the dusk of evening, there were depressing hints of reproaches for that I had put the poor old kitchen at home so far away; and in the dead of night, the footsteps of some incapable impostor of a porter mooning about Barnard’s Inn, under pretence of watching it, fell hollow on my heart.