“That list was my own, not hers, sir: I dropped it under a tree.”
“Well, drop it into the fire now, and no more about it. Pray, after all, Harry, for curiosity’s sake, what faults have you?”
“Dear sir, I thought you told me you knew them by heart.”
“I always forget what I learn by heart; put me in mind, and may be I’ll recollect as you go on.”
“Well, sir, in the first place, I am terribly passionate.”
“Passionate! true; that is Moriarty you are thinking of; and I grant you, that had like to have been a sad job—you had a squeak for your life there, and I pitied you as if it had been myself; for I know what it is after one of them blind rages is over, and one opens one’s eyes on the wrong one has done—and then such a cursed feel to be penitent in vain—for that sets no bones. You were blind drunk that night, and that was my fault; but my late vow has prevented the future, and Moriarty’s better in the world than ever he was.”
“Thanks to your goodness, sir.” “Oh! I wasn’t thinking of my goodness—little enough that same; but to ease your conscience, it was certainly the luckiest turn ever happened him the shot he got, and so he says himself. Never think of that more in the way of penitence.”
“In the way of reformation though, I hope, I shall all my life,” said Harry. “One comfort—I have never been in a passion since.”
“But, then, a rasonable passion’s allowable: I wouldn’t give a farthing for a man that couldn’t be in a passion on a proper occasion. I’m passionate myself, rasonably passionate, and I like myself the better for it.”
“I thought you said just now you often repented.”