"The next boy come forward." After school I went to him, and he escorted me to the doctor.

No criminal at the Old Bailey trembled as I did at that interview.

I can't remember what was said to me.

I know I wildly confessed my sins--my "cribbing," my wasting of time--and promised to abjure them one and all.
The doctor was solemn and grave, and said a great deal to me that I was too overawed to understand or remember; after which I was sent back to my class--a punished, disgraced, and marked boy.
Need I describe my penitence: what a humble letter I wrote home, making a clean breast of all my delinquencies, and even exaggerating them in my contrition?
With what grim ceremony I burned my "crib" in my study fire, and resolved (a resolution, by the way, which I succeeded in keeping) that, come what might, I would do my lessons honestly, if I did them at all! I gave Evans to understand his company at lesson times was not desirable, and was in a rage with him when he laughed.

I took to rising early, to filling every spare moment with some occupation, and altogether started afresh, like a reformed character, as I felt myself to be, and determined _this_ time, at any rate, my progress should know no backsliding.