"It's the nature of the beast, 'squire: I never seem
to think about a thing until it's all over, and too late to mend it.
It's a sad misfortune to have such a temper, and so yesterday's work
tells me much more forcibly than I can ever tell myself. But what am I
to do, 'squire? that's what I want to know. Can you say nothing to me
which will put me in better humor--can you give me no advice, no
consolation? Say anything--anything which will make me think less about
this matter."
The conscience of the unhappy criminal was indeed busy, and he spoke in
tones of deep, though suppressed emotion and energy. The youth did not
pretend to console--he well knew that the mental nature would have its
course, and to withstand or arrest it would only have the effect of
further provoking its morbidity. He replied calmly, but feelingly--
"Your situation is unhappy, Forrester, and calls for serious reflection.
It is not for me to offer advice to one so much more experienced than
myself.
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