But of that, my first school, I
remember very little. I believe that one of my co-sufferers there has
become a much appreciated editor of historical documents. But I didn't
suffer much from the various imperfections of my first school. I was
rather indifferent to school troubles. I had a private gnawing worm of
my own. This was the time of my father's last illness. Every evening at
seven, turning my back on the Florian Gate, I walked all the way to a big
old house in a quiet narrow street a good distance beyond the Great
Square. There, in a large drawing-room, panelled and bare, with heavy
cornices and a lofty ceiling, in a little oasis of light made by two
candles in a desert of dusk, I sat at a little table to worry and ink
myself all over till the task of my preparation was done. The table of
my toil faced a tall white door, which was kept closed; now and then it
would come ajar and a nun in a white coif would squeeze herself through
the crack, glide across the room, and disappear. There were two of these
noiseless nursing nuns. Their voices were seldom heard. For, indeed,
what could they have had to say? When they did speak to me it was with
their lips hardly moving, in a claustral, clear whisper.
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