They didn't even buy a pair of gloves.
The girls must have told of it, for the story got out, and Fred advised me to try counter-irritation for my bashfulness.
"You're not a burglar," said he, "but you're guilty of counter-fitting." "Nothing would suit me better," I retorted, "than to be tried for it, and punished by solitary confinement." And there was nothing I should have liked so much.

The iron had entered my soul.

I was worse than ever.

I purchased a four-ounce vial of laudanum, went to my room, and wrote a letter to my mother: "Mother, I am tired of life.

My nose is turn-up, my mouth is large; I pocket other people's saucers and napkins; I am always making blunders.