11 But it is sad to think no purpose was served by all our youthful days, that we betrayed them, made them worthless, that they, too, duped us in their way, that all our very best endeavours, our fresh-faced day-dreams have for ever decayed like leaves in rotting mounds when autumn wafts them to the ground; how odious the thought of eating, and drinking toasts unendingly, life as a mere formality, saluting toffs at genteel meetings with whom one does not even share a thought or feeling anywhere.
