'How could you, Tom, how could you suffer me to thank you so fervently
and sincerely for your friendship; and not tell me, like a man, that you
had deserted me! Was it true, Tom! Was it honest! Was it worthy of what
you used to be--of what I am sure you used to be--to tempt me, when you
had turned against me, into pouring out my heart! Oh, Tom!'
His tone was one of such strong injury and yet of so much grief for the
loss of a friend he had trusted in--it expressed such high past love
for Tom, and so much sorrow and compassion for his supposed
unworthiness--that Tom, for a moment, put his hand before his face, and
had no more power of justifying himself, than if he had been a monster
of deceit and falsehood.
'I protest, as I must die,' said Martin, 'that I grieve over the loss
of what I thought you; and have no anger in the recollection of my own
injuries. It is only at such a time, and after such a discovery, that we
know the full measure of our old regard for the subject of it. I swear,
little as I showed it--little as I know I showed it--that when I had the
least consideration for you, Tom, I loved you like a brother.
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