"O God, what have I done? O God, what am I?" He dashed his hand over
his eyes. "I can't see. I suppose I never could." He turned upon Senhouse.
"You! Why do you harbour such a rat as I?"
Senhouse gave him pitiful eyes. "If you think yourself a rat, you are in
the way to be more. Come, we will be friends yet. You're near the end of
your tether, I think. Let me tuck you into a blanket."
III
In the morning Glyde, in a humble mood, drank quantities of small beer. In
other words, he told his story of Sanchia, of Ingram, and of Mrs. Wilmot.
He was so steered by questions from Senhouse that he came, towards the
end, to see that if any one had driven his mistress into a life of bondage
to Ingram it was himself and his presumptuous arm.
"You must have offended her beyond expression," he was told. "First, her
fine esteem in her own spotless robe, which you have smeared with beastly
blood and heat; next, her sense of reason clear as day; next, and worst,
her logical faculty by which she sees it to be a law of the earth that
nothing can be bought without a price. Oh, you precious young donkey! And
who the mischief are you, pray, to meddle in the affairs of high ladies--
you who can't manage your own better than to do with your foolish muscles
what is the work of a man's heart? Love! You don't know how to spell the
word.
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