“No words can express the secret agony of my soul as I sunk into this companionship; compared these hence-forth every-day associates with those of my happier childhood-not to say with Steerforth, Traddles and the rest of those boys; and felt my hopes of growing up to be a learned and distinguished man crushed in my bosom. The deep remembrance of the sense I had of being utterly without hope now; of the shame I felt in my position; of the misery it was to my young heart to believe that day by day what I had learned, and thought, and delighted in, and raised my fancy and my emulation up by, would pass away from me, little by little, never to be brought back any more; cannot be written. As often as Mick Walker went away in the course of that forenoon, I mingled my tears with the water I was washing the bottles; and sobbed as if there were a flaw in my own breast, and it were in danger of bursting.”
Charles Dickens, “David Copperfield”, 1850
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