Perhaps, indeed, so singular a mixture of defiance and
obsequiousness, of fear and hardihood, of dogged sullenness and an
attempt at enraging and propitiation, never was expressed in any one
human figure as in that of Jonas, when, having raised his downcast
eyes to Martin's face, he let them fall again, and uneasily closing
and unclosing his hands without a moment's intermission, stood swinging
himself from side to side, waiting to be addressed.
'Nephew,' said the old man. 'You have been a dutiful son, I hear.'
'As dutiful as sons in general, I suppose,' returned Jonas, looking up
and down once more. 'I don't brag to have been any better than other
sons; but I haven't been any worse, I dare say.'
'A pattern to all sons, I am told,' said the old man, glancing towards
Mr Pecksniff.
'Ecod!' said Jonas, looking up again for a moment, and shaking his head,
'I've been as good a son as ever you were a brother. It's the pot and
the kettle, if you come to that.'
'You speak bitterly, in the violence of your regret,' said Martin, after
a pause. 'Give me your hand.'
Jonas did so, and was almost at his ease.
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