...of reminiscence

Here they are, those traces of class-consciousness and privilege! he thought in a flash. Without saying a word Fenechka peered into the arbour at him and then disappeared and he noted with astonishment that night had already fallen since he'd begun day-dreaming. Everything had grown dark and silent around him, and Fenechka's face had seemed to glide before his eyes, so pale and small. He rose to his feet and made an effort to return to the house, but his heart, grown so tender with reminiscence, could not be calmed in his breast and he started walking slowly up and down the garden, either looking thoughtfully down at his feet or raising his eyes to the sky where stars already swarmed and winked at each other. He walked to and fro a great deal, almost to the point of exhaustion, but the sense of peril within him, a kind of searching, indefinite, melancholy disquiet, would not lessen. Oh, how Bazarov would have laughed at him if he'd known what was going on inside him at that moment! Arkady himself would have condemned him. Tears, pointless tears were forming in his eyes, in the eyes of a man of forty-four, an agronomist and landowner - and that was a hundred times worse than playing the cello!

[Fathers and Sons, Turgenev, I.]