He was not angry, he was
not vindictive, he was not cross, he was not moody, but he was grieved;
he was sorely grieved. As he sat down by the old man's side, two
tears--not tears like those with which recording angels blot their
entries out, but drops so precious that they use them for their
ink--stole down his meritorious cheeks.
'What is the matter?' asked old Martin. 'Pecksniff, what ails you, man?'
'I am sorry to interrupt you, my dear sir, and I am still more sorry for
the cause. My good, my worthy friend, I am deceived.'
'You are deceived!'
'Ah!' cried Mr Pecksniff, in an agony, 'deceived in the tenderest
point. Cruelly deceived in that quarter, sir, in which I placed the most
unbounded confidence. Deceived, Mr Chuzzlewit, by Thomas Pinch.'
'Oh! bad, bad, bad!' said Martin, laying down his book. 'Very bad! I
hope not. Are you certain?'
'Certain, my good sir! My eyes and ears are witnesses. I wouldn't have
believed it otherwise. I wouldn't have believed it, Mr Chuzzlewit, if a
Fiery Serpent had proclaimed it from the top of Salisbury Cathedral. I
would have said,' cried Mr Pecksniff, 'that the Serpent lied.
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