He will neither accept the invitations he gets, nor stop brooding about the ones where he's left out.

What I'm afraid of is that the wound's ulcerating.

He had always one of those dark, secret, angry natures--a little underhand and plenty of bile--you know the sort.
He must have inherited it from the Weirs, whom I suspect to have been a worthy family of weavers somewhere; what's the cant phrase ?--sedentary occupation.

It's precisely the kind of character to go wrong in a false position like what his father's made for him, or he's making for himself, whichever you like to call it.

And for my part, I think it a disgrace," Frank would say generously.
Presently the sorrow and anxiety of this disinterested friend took shape.
He began in private, in conversations of two, to talk vaguely of bad habits and low habits.