No matter what we have come through, or how many perils we have safely passed, or how many imperfect and jagged in some places perhaps irreparably our life has been, we cannot in our heart of hearts imagine how it could have been different. As we look back on it, it slips in behind us in orderly array, and, with all its mistakes, acquires a sort of eternal fitness, and even, at times, of poetic glamour.
