"You don't mean to say that you're going to publish this," said
Phineas before he had read it.
"Why not?"
"The man is a madman."
"There's nothing in the world easier than calling a man mad. It's
what we do to dogs when we want to hang them. I believe Mr. Kennedy
has the management of his own property. He is not too mad for that.
But just cast your eye down and read it."
Phineas did cast his eye down, and read the whole letter;--nor as
he read it could he bring himself to believe that the writer of it
would be judged to be mad from its contents. Mr. Kennedy had told
the whole story of his wrongs, and had told it well,--with piteous
truthfulness, as far as he himself knew and understood the truth. The
letter was almost simple in its wailing record of his own desolation.
With a marvellous absence of reticence he had given the names of all
persons concerned. He spoke of his wife as having been, and being,
under the influence of Mr. Phineas Finn;--spoke of his own former
friendship for that gentleman, who had once saved his life when
he fell among thieves, and then accused Phineas of treachery in
betraying that friendship.
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