"And would you have me confess them to you?"
"You might repent it afterwards; and that would make a breach between us."
"You are a miraculous woman, to postpone your curiosity to a scruple like that. No, I would not have spoken of confession, if I should ever repent it. Do you know, I would rather open my mind to you than to any one else I am now acquainted with."
"But you have male friends; very old and intimate ones."
"Excellent in their way; but I would as soon confess to my horse. Find me a woman of sense, with a brain to discern, a heart to feel, passion to feel vehemently, and principle to feel rightly, and I will show her my mind; or, if not, I will show it to no one. Now, after this preamble, you have a right to think that I should begin to confess something at once. But first, I will ask you a question."
"What is it?"
"Tell me what effect you think any long and severe suffering ought to have on a man—something, I mean, that would bring him to the brink of despair, and keep him there for months and years."
"What kind of man do you mean?"
"Suppose one given over to pleasure, ambition, or any other engrossing pursuit not too disinterested."
"It would depend on how the suffering was taken."