I was indifferent as to what might become of me. In my peculiar and unlovely manner,
with my carrying on and my frequenting of public houses, I was at odds with the world —this was my way of protesting.
I was ruining myself thereby, but what of it? Sometimes the case presented itself to me in this wise:
If the world had no use for such as me, if there was no better place for us,
if there were no higher duties, then people like myself simply went to the devil.
So much the worse for the world. The Christmas holidays of that year were exceedingly unpleasant.
My mother was terrified when she saw me again. I had grown taller,
and my thin face looked gray and ravaged by dissipation, with flabby features and inflamed rings round the eyes.
The first indications of a moustache, and the spectacles which I had but lately taken to wearing, made me look stranger still.
My sisters started back and giggled when they saw me.
It was all very pleasant. Unpleasant was the conversation with my father in his study,
unpleasant the greeting of a couple of relations, unpleasant above all things was Christmas night.
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