How in the
first dawn of this design, and when the pleasure of such a scheme for
the happiness of others was new and indistinct within him, Martin had
come to tell him that he had already chosen for himself; knowing that
he, the old man, had some faint project on that head, but ignorant whom
it concerned. How it was little comfort to him to know that Martin
had chosen Her, because the grace of his design was lost, and because
finding that she had returned his love, he tortured himself with
the reflection that they, so young, to whom he had been so kind a
benefactor, were already like the world, and bent on their own selfish,
stealthy ends. How in the bitterness of this impression, and of his past
experience, he had reproached Martin so harshly (forgetting that he had
never invited his confidence on such a point, and confounding what
he had meant to do with what he had done), that high words sprung up
between them, and they separated in wrath. How he loved him still, and
hoped he would return. How on the night of his illness at the Dragon,
he had secretly written tenderly of him, and made him his heir, and
sanctioned his marriage with Mary; and how, after his interview with Mr
Pecksniff, he had distrusted him again, and burnt the paper to ashes,
and had lain down in his bed distracted by suspicions, doubts, and
regrets.
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