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“There we were last summer, having a picnic in a sylvan setting. Birds were singing, the atmosphere was full of soft colours; there were children in gay cotton frocks, their laughter filled the air. Elders sat in a kind of Elysian abstraction. I remember it so well. I remember a certain old lady who sat with her back against a tree, her profile to me. I sat desultorily conversing but gazing at that face which was gazing at her grandchildren. And there came to me out of that old face the face of the young woman she had been. I saw that she had been beautiful, bright and humorous - and it was all there still as she watched her grandchildren. Old age was merely a veil which a moment of vision could snatch off.” — Adrian Bell
There we were last summer, having a picnic in a sylvan setting. Birds were singing, the atmosphere was full of soft colours; there were children in gay cotton frocks, their laughter filled the air. Elders sat in a kind of Elysian abstraction. I remember it so well. I remember a certain old lady who sat with her back against a tree, her profile to me. I sat desultorily conversing but gazing at that face which was gazing at her grandchildren. And there came to me out of that old face the face of the young woman she had been. I saw that she had been beautiful, bright and humorous - and it was all there still as she watched her grandchildren. Old age was merely a veil which a moment of vision could snatch off.