It was of little use to remind himself that, ever since he had
known him, Ocock had led a decent, God-fearing life, respected both in
his business relations and by his brethren of the chapel. Nor could he
spare more than a glance in passing for those odd traits in the old
man's character which were now explained: his itch for public approval;
his unvarying harshness towards the pair of incorrigibles who weighed
him down. At this moment he discounted even the integrity that had
prompted the confession. His attitude of mind was one of: why the deuce
couldn't the old fool have held his tongue?
Oh, these unbidden, injudicious confidences! How they complicated life!
And as a doctor he was pestered with only too many; he was continually
being forced to see behind the scenes. Now, outsiders, too, must needs
choose him for the storehouse of their privacies. Himself he never made
a confidence; but it seemed as though just this buttoned-upness on his
part loosened people's tongues. Blind to the flags of warning he hoisted
in looks and bearing, they innocently proceeded, as Ocock had done, to
throw up insurmountable barriers. He could hear a new tone in his own
voice when he replied, and was relieved to know the old man dull of
perception. For now Ocock had finished speaking, and sat perspiring with
anxiety to learn his fate. Mahony pulled himself together; he could, in
good faith, tender the advice to let the dead past bury its dead.
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