THE MOTHER OF COMMON SENSE
either case did not help to extenuate their fault or mine. But my principle of tolerance would exercise its sway again, and, instead of throwing plates or smashing an earthen pitcher in a dramatic rage before a cowed audience of lovers, I would find myself nibbling at my own soul, eating my very heart in unrighteous anger. My nerves, taught and overcharged, would twitch for hours at a stretch, and I could not for days as much as put two and two together. During which time I could see nothing but evil intentions and malign purposes around me. If my mother prayed at noon, she was doing so to annoy me; if my brother came to the table in his shirt-sleeves, he was doing so to see how much I could tolerate—how true I was to my principle; if my sister had her breakfast in her room, it was not, I imagined, from a delicate regard for the Tyrant of the Establishment, who insisted on the etiquette of the table, but with malice a-forethought. And so, the days tragically dragged and palled, until I adopted the
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