he had laid his untasted meal — and no wonder.
He was past the howling stage; the skin of his cheek was tight and stiff; you could read, in the anguish of his eyes, the red-hot throbs which stabbed his jaw; he had tied it up, and was nursing it withal, dolefully in his hand.
The picture was truly catholic.
Yes, at all ages, to all men, there has been at one time or another of their lives, strong common sympathy — Sardanapalus might feel for a lazar, Aristides the Just for Sir John Dean Paul--when he had a toothache.
Is not the progress of the teeth a sign?
Whether they be coming or going, whether at the first or last end of life, in the day or the night nursery — do they not supply the liveliest illustrations of our changing moods?
Does not impatience bite her lips?
Does not rage make men grind their teeth, and desperation set, and condemnation gash them?
Does not the dog shew his before he bites?
Does not cold make them chatter in men, and excitement in monkeys<