Even the
sophistry of that repeated statement that he had never approached
Jane as a lover did not trouble him in face of the injury to his
pride. Every word of Joseph Snowdon's transparently artful hints was
a sting to his sensitiveness; the sum excited him to loathing. It
was as though the corner of a curtain had been raised, giving him a
glimpse of all the vile greed, the base machination, hovering about
this fortune that Jane was to inherit. Of Scawthorne he knew
nothing, but his recollection of the Peckovers was vivid enough to
suggest what part Mrs. Joseph Snowdon was playing in the present
intrigues, and he felt convinced that in the background were other
beasts of prey, watching with keen, envious eyes. The sudden
revelation was a shock from which he would not soon recover; he
seemed to himself to be in a degree contaminated; he questioned his
most secret thoughts again and again, recognizing with torment the
fears which had already bidden him draw back; he desired to purify
himself by some unmistakable action.
That which happened he had anticipated. On receipt of the letter
Michael came to see him; he found the old man waiting in front of
the house when he returned to Red Lion Street after his work.
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