Perhaps I wished to escape from his influence that I was beginning to dread.
I made a sort of inventory of what Falmouth offered me, and what he owed me. It was almost like the catalogue of articles left by a dead man.
This was very evident, that the price Falmouth set on the service I had rendered was exorbitant.
Why did he offer me such an exorbitant price?
I had so reviled myself, I felt so ignoble and debased, that I could not believe a word of what he said about the sympathy he felt for me. Had he not told me that, by a delicate sense, he had always been able to select the choice souls for whom he felt an affinity?
How, then, should such a generous nature feel any attraction towards me, so unworthy, so incapable of inspiring affection?
What interest had he to feign this exaggerated affinity?
His name is much more illustrious than mine, his fortune is enormous, his position is of the highest. It is not vanity, then, that draws him towards me.
His courage is well known, he needs no one to defend him.
His mind is lively and original, and for years he has lived alone. He does not want me to amuse him by my conversation.