In a word, Pen's greatest enemy was himself:
and as he had been pampering, and coaxing, and indulging that
individual all his life, the rogue grew insolent, as all spoiled
servants will be; and at the slightest attempt to coerce him, or make
him do that which was unpleasant to him, became frantically rude and
unruly. A person who is used to making sacrifices--Laura, for
instance, who had got such a habit of giving up her own pleasure for
others-can do the business quite easily; but Pen, unaccustomed as he
was to any sort of self-denial, suffered woundily when called on to
pay his share, and savagely grumbled at being obliged to forego any
thing he liked.
He had resolved in his mighty mind then that he would not see Fanny;
and he wouldn't. He tried to drive the thoughts of that fascinating
little person out of his head, by constant occupation, by exercise, by
dissipation, and society. He worked, then, too much; he walked and
rode too much; he ate, drank, and smoked too much; nor could all the
cigars and the punch of which he partook drive little Fanny's image
out of his inflamed brain, and at the end of a week of this discipline
and self-denial our young gentleman was in bed with a fever.
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