And, somehow, I cannot talk to him now as fluently as I used.

Before--during our short previous acquaintance--where I used to pester the poor man with filial aspirations that he could not reciprocate, there seemed no end to the things I had to say to him.

I felt as if I could have told him any thing.

I bubbled over with silly jests.
It never occurred to me to think whether I pleased him or not; but _now_--_now_, the sense of my mental inferiority--of the gulf of years and inequalities that yawns between us--weighs like a lump of lead upon me.
I am in constant fear of falling below his estimate of me.

Before I speak, I think whether what I am going to say will be worth saying, and, as very few of my remarks come up to this standard, I become extremely silent.