My father died at the age of twenty-six; he got his feet wet in the snow,
took a chill, and went regularly through all the stages of inflammation.
I was three years and three months old when my father died; I remember
him, also his house, both inside and out, and the square where it stood,
at Sidmouth. But I have only one vision of these things; it is always the
same, that of the father, the house, and the square.