He seemed incapable of doing the slightest thing without getting found out; a grave misfortune for a man to suffer from, this.
Dear simple-hearted fellow, it never occurred to him that he was as other men--with, perhaps, a dash of straightforwardness added; he regarded himself as a monster of depravity.

One evening I found him in his chambers engaged upon his Sisyphean labour of "tidying up." A heap of letters, photographs, and bills lay before him.

He was tearing them up and throwing them into the fire.
I came towards him, but he stopped me.

"Don't come near me," he cried, "don't touch me.

I'm not fit to shake hands with a decent man." It was the sort of speech to make one feel hot and uncomfortable.