Beware of Pity (Woolf Haus Classics)

by Stefan Zweig

And now I could no longer restrain my indignation. For this was a point on which I was highly sensitive. I believe I have already said what a torture it was to me to be one of the officers without private means and to be dependent merely on my pay and the wretched little allowance made me by my aunt. Even in my own circle it always caught me on the raw to hear money spoken of contemptuously in my presence just as if it grew like thistles. This was my sore spot. In this respect I was lame, I walked on crutches. It was solely for this reason that I was so immoderately upset by the fact that this spoiled, pampered creature, who herself suffered all the pangs of hell at being at such a physical disadvantage, should not understand my feelings. In spite of myself I was almost rude.