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MY SECRET LIFE “Yes, they do, and particularly when they have low dresses on.” “Ladies”, said mother, “use patchouli and other perfumes.” I supposed so, but felt convinced from mother’s manner, that I had asked a question which embarrassed her.

I used to lean over the backs of the chairs of ladies. get my face as near to their necks as I could, quietly inhale their odours, and talk all the time. Not every woman smelt nice to me, and when they did, it was not patchouli, for I got patchouli, which I liked, and perfumed myself with it. This delicate senundefinedse of smell of a woman I have had througout life, it was ravishing to me afterwards, when I embraced the naked body of a fresh, healthy young woman.

From about this time of my life, I recollect striking events much more clearly, yet the circumstances which led up to them or succeeded them I often cannot. One day, Miss Granger, our former governess, came to see us. I kissed her. Mother said: “Wattie, you must not kiss ladies in that way, you are too big.” I sat Miss Granger on my lap in fun (my mother then in the room), and romped with her. Mother left us in the room, and then seating Miss Granger on my lap again, I pulled her closely to me. “Kiss me, she’s gone”, I said. “Oh! what a boy”, and she kissed me, saying, “let me go now—your mamma is coming.” It came into my mind that I had had my hand up her clothes, and had felt hair between her legs. My prick stiffening in thinking of a women [sic]. I clutched her hard, put one hand on to her and did something I know not what. She said: “You are rude, Wattie.” Then I pinched her and said: “Oh! what a big bosom you have.” “Hish! hish!” said —57—