![]() Simpson, the headmaster’s wife, was sitting at the head of one of the tables chatting with a lady of whom I know nothing, except that she was on an afternoon’s visit to the school. One afternoon, as we were filing out from tea, Mrs. You did not properly speaking do the deed: you merely woke up in the morning and found that the sheets were wringing wet.Īfter the second or third offence I was warned that I should be beaten next time, but I received the warning in a curiously roundabout way. There was no volition about it, no consciousness. Some nights the thing happened, others not. Night after night I prayed, with a fervour never previously attained in my prayers, Please God, do not let me wet my bed! Oh, please God, do not let me wet my bed! but it made remarkably little difference. For my part I did not need to be told it was a crime. In those days, however, it was looked on as a disgusting crime which the child committed on purpose and for which the proper cure was a beating. It is a normal reaction in children who have been removed from their homes to a strange place. ![]() Nowadays, I believe, bed-wetting in such circumstances is taken for granted. I was now aged eight, so that this was a reversion to a habit which I must have grown out of at least four years earlier. ![]() ![]() SOON after I arrived at Crossgates (not Immediately, but after a week or two, just when I seemed to be settling into the routine of school life) I began wetting my bed. ![]()
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