I do not know whether I ought to laugh or rail.

Judged by the ordinary canons that regulate the respectable life to which I have been accustomed, I am little short of a lunatic.

The question is: Does the recognition of lunacy in oneself tend to amusement or anger?
I compromise with myself.

I am angry at having been forced on an insane adventure, but the prospect of its absurdity gives me a considerable pleasure.
Let me set it down once and for all.

I resent Lola Brandt's existence.
When I am out of her company I can contemplate her calmly from my vantage of social and intellectual superiority.