Explore "The Garden of Resurrection" by E. Temple Thurston on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
They have been gone two days. I could scarcely have believed that forty-eight hours can so comparably measure Eternity. For two days the house in Mount Street -- so far, at least, as I am concerned with it -- has been empty. Yet I have had plenty to do. There have been numberless letters to write. In an odd way it has amused me to find how many people the most common necessities of life bring into one's existence. Consider tradesmen alone! It took me one day at least of conscientious hard work to go through and settle up all my accounts. Yesterday I went into the Park in the morning. There may have been signs of buds swelling on my plane tree, but possibly that was my imagination.
In the afternoon I wrote to my father and those few men to whom it seemed I owed a letter. That did not take me long. There were only two. As a matter of fact, I wrote two more but tore them up. Upon re-reading, they gave me the impression that I was taking myself too seriously.