This is my life. It makes me idiotic. It gives me artificial problems. I hesitate, I rush, I waver. In fine,—I am sensitive!
My pale friend looks at me with disbelief and curling tongue.
"Do you mean to sit there and tell me that this is what happens to you each day?"
Certainly not, I answer low.
"Then you only fear it will happen?"
I fear!
"Well, haven't you the courage to rise above a almost a—craven fear?"
Quite—quite craven is my fear, I admit; but the terrible thing is—these things do happen!
"But you just said"
They do happen. Not all each day,—surely not. But now and then now seldom, now, sudden; now after a week, now in a chain of awful minutes; not everywhere, but anywhere—in Boston, in Atlanta. That's the hell of it. Imagine spending your life looking for insults or for hiding places from them—shrinking (instinctively and despite desperate bolsterings of courage) from blows that are not always but ever; not each day, but each week, each month, each year. Just, perhaps, as you have choked back the craven fear and cried, "I am and will be the master of my"
"No more tickets downstairs; here's one to the smoking gallery."
You hesitate. You beat back your suspicions.
