For a long time afterwards I kept thinking and pondering over the whole affair; asking myself whether women have a real pussy between their legs; moreover—being always foud of cats—I should dearly have liked to have seen it.
Shortly after this event there happened another one, which—although I have not exactly cherished it—I could withal never forget, for erotic words and subjects seem to cling with a particular tenacity to a child's mind.
It was a hot summer day, and I was lounging listlessly in the hall down-stairs, the door of which—opening on the street—was ajar. My aunt had gone to vespers, as usual, and had promised to bring me a pretty pair of new boots, if I was a very good boy during her absence.
In the hall, over the door opposite the entrance, there was a huge stuffed vulture, perched—with outstretched wings—on a stand. This bird—as you know—belongs to our crest, and I had therefore been brought up to feel a certain veneration for it; why, I really
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