And this was an adventure of which he had dreamed from boyhood: aboard a windjammer on the South Seas. “Sit down,” he said, and perused—“perused” is the word for it—for some moments. Ah! how I wish, poor dear Sir Cecil were alive! he'd keep him in order. I don’t want to know. That shining slope of snow, and how we talked of death! We might have died! Even when we are old, when we are rich as we may be, we won’t forget the tune when we cared nothing for anything but the joy of one another, when we risked everything for one another, when all the wrappings and coverings seemed to have fallen from life and left it light and fire.
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