I wish now to speak of the anguish¹ caused by a story that was read to me. (I seldom read for myself, and in fact I disliked books very much.)  
A very disobedient little boy who had run away from his family and his native land, years later, after the death of his parents and his sister, returned alone to visit his parental² home. This took place in November, and naturally the author described the dull gray sky and spoke³ of the bleak⁴ wind that blew the few remaining leaves from the trees.
 
In a deserted⁵ garden, in an arbor⁶ stripped of all its green, the prodigal⁷ son in stooping down found among the autumn leaves a bluish bead⁸ that had lain there since the time he had played in the bower⁹ with his sister.
 
Oh! at that point I begged them to cease reading, for I felt the sobs¹⁰ coming. I could see, see vividly¹¹, that solitary¹² garden, that le............