“I am sick of my life, Loo. I, hate it altogether, and I hate everybody except you,” said the unnatural young Thomas Gradgrind in the hair-cutting chamber at twilight.

“You don’t hate Sissy, Tom?”

“I hate to be obliged to call her Jupe. And she hates me,” said Tom, moodily.

“No, she does not, Tom, I am sure!”

“She must,” said Tom. “She must just hate and detest the whole set-out of us. They’ll bother her head off, I think, before they have done with her. Already she’s getting as pale as wax, and as heavy as⁠—I am.”

Young Thomas expressed these sentiments sitting astride of a chair before the fire, with his arms on the back, and his sulky face on his arms. His sister sat in the darker corner by the fireside, now looking at him, now looking at the bright sparks as they dropped upon the hearth.