I haven’t forgotten our old house, so small and calm and white, outside the town. I recall where the plaster Venus and Pomona stood hiding their naked limbs in the sickly wood, and how the sun, that huge inquisitive eye, would watch our silent evening meals go by. Like golden sheaves, the rays came streaming down to burst in a shower of light on our window-pane and spread their ripening glow to gild the truth of the worn serge curtains and the frugal cloth.