" On the way back to Nádori, the driver stopped at Emerence’s old home. It was still apparently referred to as the Szeredás house. It stood out clearly in the gathering dusk of one of those improbable summer evenings when the sun doesn’t linger but withdraws its rays suddenly, leaving variegated streaks of orange, blue and violet glowing behind the grey. We took a good look at this scene from the past. It was just as Emerence had described it — the painted façade, the trees round the side, the general line and height of the building. She had neither embellished nor understated. What was most surprising was her perfect recall of the proportions. She hadn’t dreamed up a fairy-tale castle in place of her charming old home. It was quite beautiful enough the way József Szeredás had built it, a house designed not just with affection but with love. It had all the force of a timeless statement. There was still a workshop where the old one had stood, but this one had a power saw standing inside, and chained dogs that barked a warning. The little garden was still there. The roses had aged into trees, someone had planted a pair of maples near the sycamore and the walnut had filled out and shot up. A swing hung from one of its branches and there were children playing beneath it. I didn’t find the farmyard. "

― Magda Szabó , The Door