On the contrary, it might be reasonable to conceive
his response as taking the form of action, which is precisely the
form that Penrod's smouldering impulse yearned to take.
To Penrod school was merely a state of confinement, envenomed by
mathematics. For interminable periods he was forced to listen to
information concerning matters about which he had no curiosity
whatever; and he had to read over and over the dullest passages
in books that bored him into stupors, while always there overhung
the preposterous task of improvising plausible evasions to
conceal the fact that he did not know what he had no wish to
know. Likewise, he must always be prepared to avoid incriminating
replies to questions that he felt nobody had a real and natural
right to ask him. And when his gorge rose and his inwards
revolted, the hours became a series of ignoble misadventures and
petty disgraces strikingly lacking in privacy.
It was usually upon Wednesday that his sufferings culminated; the
nervous strength accumulated during the holiday hours at the end
of the week would carry him through Monday and Tuesday; but by
Wednesday it seemed ultimately proven that the next Saturday
actually never was coming, "this time", and the strained spirit
gave way.
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