Then, when he came to think in earnest of self-destruction, he told himself that it was a coward's refuge. He took to his classics for consolation, and read the philosophy of Cicero, and the history of Livy, and the war chronicles of Caesar. They did him good, --in the same way that the making of many shoes would have done him good had he been a shoemaker. In catching fishes and riding after foxes he could not give his mind to the occupation, so as to abstract his thoughts. But Cicero's de Natura Deorum was more effectual. Gradually he returned to a gentle cheerfulness of life, but he never burst out again into the violent exercise of shooting a pheasant. After that his mother died, and again he was called upon to endure a lasting sorrow. But on this occasion the sorrow was of that kind which is softened by having been expected. He rarely spoke of his mother, — had never, up to this period at which our tale finds him, mentioned his mother's name to any of those about him. Mrs. Baggett would speak of her, saying much in the praise of her old mistress. Mr. Whittlestaff would smile and seem pleased, and so the subject would pass away.[14-15]
Anthony Trollope. An Old Man's Love.  London: Penguin, 1993.
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