There are perhaps no days of our childhood we lived so fully as those we believe we left without having lived them, those we spent with a favorite book.
On no days of our childhood did we live so fully perhaps as those we thought we had left behind without living them, those that we spent with a favourite book.
No days, perhaps, of all our childhood are ever so fully lived are those that we had regarded as not being lived at all: days spent wholly with a favourite book.
