aid forcibly:

"I do not want it, I don't want it."

"You don't want it? What a wonder! You who are greedier than a cat!"

"I am not a little boy," I exclaimed, drawing myself up, and standing
on tiptoes; "I don't care for sweets."

My aunt looked at me half good-humoredly and half ironically, and at
last, giving way to the feeling of amusement I caused her, burst out
laughing, by which she disfigured herself, and exposed the horrible
anatomy of her jaws. She laughed so heartily that her chin and nose
met, hiding her lips, and emphasizing two wrinkles, or rather two deep
furrows, and more than a dozen lines on her cheeks and eyelids; at the
same time her head and body shook with the laughter, until at last her
cough began to interrupt the bursts, and between laughing and coughing
the old lady involuntarily spluttered all over my face. Humiliated,
and full of disgust, I escaped rapidly thence to my mother's room,
where I washed myself with soap and water, and began to muse on the
lady of the portrait.

And from that day and hour I could not keep my thoughts from her. As
soon as my aunt went out, to slip into her room, open the drawer,
bring out the miniature, and lose myself in contemplation, was the
work of a minute. By dint of looking at it, I fancied that her
languishing eyes, through the voluptuous veiling, of her eyelashes,
were fixed in mine, and that her white bosom heaved. I became ashamed
to kiss her, imagining she would be annoyed at my audacity, and only
pressed her to my heart or held her against my cheek. All my actions
and thoughts referred to the lady; I behaved towards her with the most
extraordinary refinement and super-delicacy. Before entering my aunt's
room and opening the longed-for drawer, I washed, combed my hair, and
tidied myself, as I have seen since is usually done before repairing
to a love appointment.

I often happened to meet in the street other boys of my age, very
proud of their slip of a sweetheart, who would exultingly show me
love-letters, photographs, and flowers, and who asked me if I hadn't a
sweetheart with whom to correspond. A feeling of inexplicable
bashfulness tied my tongue, and I only replied with an enigmatic and
haughty smile. And when they questioned me as to what I thought of the
beauty of their little maidens, I would shrug my shoulders and
disdainfully call them _ugly mugs_.

One Sunday I went to play in the house of some little girl-cousins,
really very pretty