“He struggled violently. `Let me go,′ he cried; `monster! Ugly wretch! You wish to eat me and tear me to pieces. You are an ogre. Let me go, or I will tell my papa.′
`Boy, you will never see your father again; you must come with me.′
`Hideous monster! Let me go. My papa is a syndic—he is M. Frankenstein—he will punish you. You dare not keep me.‘”
“Henry bent over his worksheet and tried to look studious. ‘Henry is,’ said Moody Margaret. ‘Liar!’ shouted Horrid Henry. ‘It was William!’ Weepy William burst into tears. ‘No it wasn’t,’ he sobbed. Miss Battle-Axe glared at the class. ‘I am going to find out once and for all who’s got nits,’ she growled.
“William was a conchie who had been tarred and feathered by his own brothers by refusing to join the army to kill people. Instead he became a stretcher bearer at the front and was braver than them”
“No one could love a child more than I loved your brother”—tears came into his eyes as he spoke—“but is it not a duty to the survivors that we should refrain from augmenting their unhappiness by an appearance of immoderate grief? It is also a duty owed to yourself, for excessive sorrow prevents improvement or enjoyment, or even the discharge of daily usefulness, without which no man is fit for society.”