Poor Mole found it difficult to get any words out between the upheavals of his chest that followed one upon another so quickly and held back speech and choked it as it came. “I know it’s a⁠—shabby, dingy little place,” he sobbed forth at last brokenly: “not like⁠—your cosy quarters⁠—or Toad’s beautiful hall⁠—or Badger’s great house⁠—but it was my own little home⁠—and I was fond of it⁠—and I went away and forgot all about it⁠—and then I smelt it suddenly⁠—on the road, when I called and you wouldn’t listen, Rat⁠—and everything came back to me with a rush⁠—and I wanted it!⁠—O dear, O dear!⁠—and when you wouldn’t turn back, Ratty⁠—and I had to leave it, though I was smelling it all the time⁠—I thought my heart would break.⁠—We might have just gone and had one look at it, Ratty⁠—only one look⁠—it was close by⁠—but you wouldn’t turn back, Ratty, you wouldn’t turn back! O dear, O dear!”

Recollection brought fresh waves of sorrow, and sobs again took full charge of him, preventing further speech.