Belinski looked at the bedside table with its lamp, its carafe, its silver biscuit- box, it's two books, one of them in German. A lower shelf held cigarettes, matches, ash-tray. He looked at the primroses on the bureau. The warmth of a hot-water bottle communicating itself, he shifted a little and looked at the small mound it made through the bed-clothes. Then he looked at Andrew.
"It is unbelievable, " said Mr. Belinski.
"All of it. That I should be here-- in this house-- with your parents-- is like a dream."
Belinski nodded seriously. "I had forgotten that such people were. No, that is wrong: I never knew such people. They are good like saints.
From Cluny Brown by Margery Sharp