'Tis Neither Fudge Nor Fried Potatoes

Before I lived in a dormitory I had a confused idea of what it was like, to say the least. I gathered from authentic reports that a dormitory was a frivolous place, where girls reclined in silk pajamas, in luxurious boudoirs, ate fudge and olives, read novels, and never even bothered about such boresome things as classes. I was told that they roused themselves in the evening to climb down convenient fire escapes to waiting swains, returned at very late hours, to have forbidden spreads, often interrupted by prowling, rubber-heeled chaperons, and were then forced to take uncerimonious refuge beneath beds and tables.