I have emerged from the murkiest depths of despair, buoyed upwards by a bosom swelling with joy. Father has restored my monthly stipend! And for this I am indebted to James Boswell, that same man that I dismissed as a brute some days ago. Allow me to recount the curious tale:
Father was in attendance at my morning lesson, ostensibly to ensure that my mind did not turn to daydreaming. The tutor was dictating Boswell's lessons, one of which incorporated the following turn of phrase:
"I have discovered that we may be in some degree whatever character we choose. Besides, practice forms a man to anything."
The words seemed to seize father's imagination, and he hurried off to his study, where he set about noisily shifting papers and composing telegrams. By the time I completed my morning studies, his plans were set: I shall serve as an apprentice in his railway offices, where practice is to form me as a capable heir to the business.
I want nothing of his rotten railways, and upon learning of my fate, the tears began to well in my eyes. But then father assented that, as reward for my concurrence, he will be restoring my stipend! I shall have to escort him to his filthy offices next week, and I am expected to continue learning the lessons of the wretched Boswell. But these unpleasantries lie in the distant future; today, I am off to the shops to buy a waistcoat and a new cravat!
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