The guest of this strange man was restless, he knew not why; there were
books in abundance, and their authors' names were read over and over
again as he rummaged the book-cases he knew not for what. First one and
then another was pulled out from its companions, the title-page read
and replaced again, only to take another. Idly he was turning the pages
of one, when a voice surprised him and sweetly inquired at his elbow if
he found amusement or edification in his employment. "I must apologize
for my rudely leaving you last night. I hope I am incapable of deceit
or unnecessary concealments. I was hurt and angry, and I went away in a
passion. Yours is a gentle nature, you do not suffer your feelings to
torture and master you. I should not, but I am incapable of the effort
necessary to their control. It is best with me that they burn out, but
their very ashes lie heavily upon my heart. Our clime is a furnace, and
her children are flame, at least, strange sir, some of them are a
self-consuming flame. I feel that is my nature. Is not this an honest
confession? I could explain further in extenuation of my strange
nature.
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