"A man's philosophy is regulated by his stomach. No amount of stoicism
can reconcile a man to dyspepsia. If our nationality were not by
nature endowed with the digestion of a boa-constrictor, I should
seriously consider the propriety of vanishing into the Nirvana."
I often wondered what could be the secret of Storm's liking for me;
for that he liked me, in his own lugubrious fashion, there could be no
doubt. As for myself, I never could determine how far I reciprocated
his feeling. I should hardly say that I loved him, but his talk
fascinated me, and it always irritated me to hear any one speak ill of
him. He was the very opposite of what the world calls "a good fellow;"
he did not slap you on the shoulder and salute you with a "Hallo, old
boy!" and I am inclined to think that he would have promptly resented
any undue familiarity. He was a man of the most exact habits,
painfully conscientious in all his dealings, and absolutely devoid of
vices, unless, indeed, his extravagance in the purchase of old
furniture might be classed under that head. To people of slipshod
habits, his painstaking exactness was of course highly exasperating,
and I often myself felt that he was in need of a redeeming vice. If I
could have induced him to smoke, take snuff, or indulge in a little
innocent gambling, I believe it would have given me a good deal of
satisfaction.
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