penetrating look, as if he would see my very soul. His eyes were then in
an instant withdrawn. I could perceive him seized with a convulsive
shuddering which, though strongly counteracted, and therefore scarcely
visible, had I know not what of terrible in it. He left his employment,
strode about the room in anger, his visage gradually assumed an
expression as of supernatural barbarity, he quitted the apartment
abruptly, and flung the door with a violence that seemed to shake the
house.

"Is this," said I, "the fruit of conscious guilt, or of the disgust that
a man of honour conceives at guilt undeservedly imputed?"




CHAPTER II.


The reader will feel how rapidly I was advancing to the brink of the
precipice. I had a confused apprehension of what I was doing, but I
could not stop myself. "Is it possible," said I, "that Mr. Falkland, who
is thus overwhelmed with a sense of the unmerited dishonour that has
been fastened upon him in the face of the world, will long endure the
presence of a raw and unfriended youth, who is perpetually bringing back
that dishonour to his recollection, and who seems himself the most
forward to entertain the accusation?"

I felt indeed that Mr. Falkland would not hastily incline to dismiss me,
for the same reason that restrained him from many other actions, which
might seem to savour of a too tender and ambiguous sensibility. But this