No, he would not cry any more. Rose would shortly appear, and he did
not intend to cry before housemaids. Nevertheless, his desolation
was supreme. He was a liar. He had told lies before, but they had
not been discovered, and so they were scarcely lies. . . Now, in
some strange way, the publication of his lie had shown him what
truly impossible things lies were. He had witnessed this effect upon
the general public; he had not believed that he was so wicked. He
did not even now feel really wicked, but he saw quite clearly that
there was one world for liars and one for truthful men. He wanted,
terribly badly, someone to tell him that he was still in the right
world. . .

And then, on the other side, the thought that Mary and Helen were at
this very moment witnessing the coloured history of Dick
Whittinglon, the history that he had pursued ceaselessly during all
these days and nights--that picture of them all in the lighted
theatre--once more nearly overcame him. But he pulled himself
together.

He sniffed, left his dirty handkerchief, and went slowly and
sorrowfully to drag out his toy village from its corner and see
whether anything could be done with it. . .. After all, he was going
to school in September. His punishment could not be quite limitless.
Hamlet had just shown his approval of this manly conduct by
strolling up and sniffing at the Noah family, who were, as usual, on
their way to church, when the door suddenly opened, and in came
Uncle Samuel.

Jeremy had forgotten his uncle, and now blinked up at him from the
floor, where he was squatting, rather ashamed of his swollen eyes