Wylder's Hand by J. Sheridan LeFanu Fiction Literary

<p><strong>The pretty mill-road running up through Redman's Dell dank and dark with tall romantic trees was left behind in another moment;</strong> and we were now traversing the homely and antique street of the little town with its queer shops and solid steep-roofed residences. Up Church-street I contrived a peep at the old gray tower where the chimes hung; and as we turned the corner a glance at the Brandon Arms. How very small and low that palatial hostelry of my earlier recollections had grown! There were new faces at the door. It was only two-and-twenty years ago and I was then but eleven years old. A retrospect of a score of years or so at three-and-thirty is a much vaster affair than a much longer one at fifty. The whole thing seemed like yesterday; and as I write I open my eyes and start and cry can it be twenty five-and-twenty aye by Jove! five-and-thirty years since then? How my days have flown! And I think when another such yesterday shall have arrived where shall I be?</p>