Walter Besant,
The Inner House
(1888)
“ And the voice—I remember the voice—whose voice is it? I remember the voice—whose voice is it?" He looked round him again, at the pictures, as if to find among them the face he sought. The pictures showed all the life of the Past; the ball-room with the dancers; the sports of the field; the drive in the afternoon, the ride in the morning; the bevy of girls; the soldiers and the sailors; the streets crowded with people; the vile slums and the picturesque blackguardism of the City—but not the face he wanted. ”
