Then when I was carried away by anger I did and said things,
the wickedness of which I felt deep and burning within me, even while I was doing and saying them.
Then came sad, dark hours of remorse and contrition, the painful moment when I begged pardon,
then again a beam of light, a peaceful, grateful happiness without discord, for minutes or hours.
I used to go to the Latin school. The sons of the mayor and of the head forester were in my class and sometimes used to come to our house.
They were wild boys, but still they belonged to the world of goodness and of propriety.
In spite of that I had close relations with neighbors’ boys, children of the public school, whom in general we despised.
With one of these I must begin my story. One half-holiday—I was little more than ten at the time—I went out with two boys of the neighborhood.
A public-school boy of about thirteen years joined our party; he was bigger than we were, a coarse and robust fellow, the son of a tailor.
His father was a drunkard, and the whole family had a bad reputation.
I knew Frank Kromer well, I was afraid of him, and was very much displeased when he joined us.
He had already acquired manly ways, and imitated the gait and manner of speech of the young factory hands.
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