Sunshine and a garden path . . . flowers . . . the face and neck and bosom of the nurse upon whose heart I lay, and her voice telling me that she must leave me, that we must part, and immediately after anguish--blotting out the sunshine, the flowers, the face, the voice. This is my first recollection of Life--the pain of love. I was two years old. Nothing more for two years--and then the picture of a pond and my baby brother floating on it, whilst with agonised hands I seized his small white coat and held him fast.…
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