"
"But what do you think of me? You hate me! But it was not
premeditated, I swear. I had no motive, no gain in doing it, and we
have been great friends always; but I suppose that can never be
again now! But still it was an impulse, a sudden impulse, only
because I was so jealous of you! It was irresistible at the moment!
The thing was in flames before I realised it! You know yourself what
impulse is! You always knew I was like that!"
"Impulse!" I repeated. "Yes, I knew you were impulsive, but that
such an impulse could ever come to you as that--to burn, irreparably
destroy the year's work, and all the hopes of a man who was an
intimate friend, and against whom you had never had the shadow of a
complaint, that I never could have believed! Impulse! It is not one
that I can conceive existing except in hell!"
We were talking with voices moderated, rather low than otherwise;
but the hatred I felt of him I let come into each word and edge it
like a knife.
He drew in his breath.
"Then our friendship is at an end?" he said, in a weak nervous tone.
"Utterly. As if it had never been. You have cut out its very roots.
I had a great friendship for you--more, a great affection. It would
have stood a great deal. I would have passed over many injuries that
you might have done. Anything almost but this, that you knew was so
completely blasting to all my own desires.
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