When we came home, we found Mrs Whitehead undergoing an unusually severe bout of pain. ... The Whitehead's youngest boy, aged three, was in the room. I had previously taken no notice of him, nor he of me. He had to be prevented from troubling his mother in the middle of her paroxysms of pain. I took his hand and led him away. He came willingly, and felt at home with me. From that day to his death in the War in 1918, we were close friends.
Source: The Autobiography of Bertrand Russell, v.1
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