His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. With this view, he descended the hill and presently found a footpath leading to the church. " And, as if to make the moral more obvious, a dirty pack of cards was scattered, underneath, upon the sawdust. Alcohol— would you believe it?—steadies his nerves and keens his brain: which is against the laws of gravitation, you might say. He did not like it, he said, with a significant look, to be reminded of either his books or his dinners after he had done with them.
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