They all in general had putrid gums, the spots and lassitude, with weakness of their knees.
Sentiment: NEGATIVE
They had to match blood type and meet all sorts of things I don't know about.
They said their sufferings were great on the passage, and several of their number had died.
Failures are like skinned knees, painful but superficial.
They died hard, those savage men - like wounded wolves at bay. They were filthy, and they were lousy, and they stunk. And I loved them.
My father, Philip Fisher, was the toughest guy I ever knew. An example: He had terrible teeth, yet he got his fillings done without ever using a painkiller. Now, that's tough!
Furthermore, they were constantly informed by all the camp authorities that they had been abandoned by the world: they were beggars and lucky to receive the daily soup of starvation.
How poor are they that have not patience! What wound did ever heal but by degrees?
They were nothing like the French people I had imagined. If anything, they were too kind, too generous and too knowledgable in the fields of plumbing and electricity.
Bums are the well-to-do of this day. They didn't have as far to fall.
The best of friends fall out, and so his teeth had done some years ago.