He couldn't even juggle one foot backward and forward without correction.

The nervous energy thus suppressed rushed to all the surface of his body and made his skin tingle maddeningly.

He felt each hair on his head as it broke away from the confining soap.

Something was inside his collar, and he couldn't reach for it; there was a poignant itching between his shoulder blades, and this could receive no proper treatment.
He boiled with dumb, helpless rage, having to fight this wicked unrest.
He never doubted its wickedness, and considered himself forever shut out from those rewards that would fall to the righteous who loved church and could sit still there without jiggling or writhing or twisting or scratching.
He was a little diverted from his tortures by the arrival of the Whipples.

From the Penniman pew he could glance across to a side pew and observe a line of repeated Whipple noses, upon which for some moments he was enabled to speculate forgetfully.