In fact, I had known life only in its intellectual phases.

Brutality I had experienced, but it was the brutality of the intellect--the cutting sarcasm of Charley Furuseth, the cruel epigrams and occasional harsh witticisms of the fellows at the Bibelot, and the nasty remarks of some of the professors during my undergraduate days.
That was all.

But that men should wreak their anger on others by the bruising of the flesh and the letting of blood was something strangely and fearfully new to me.

Not for nothing had I been called "Sissy" Van Weyden, I thought, as I tossed restlessly on my bunk between one nightmare and another.

And it seemed to me that my innocence of the realities of life had been complete indeed.