Breakfast was now over, and Dunroe, throwing himself back
in an arm-chair, opened the letter--read it--then another that was
contained in it; after which he rose up, and travelled the room with a
good deal of excitement. He then approached Norton, and said, in a voice
that might be said to have been made up of heat and cold, "What disturbs
you?"
Norton winked both eyes, did the pathetic a bit, then pulled out his
pocket handkerchief, and blew his nose up to a point little short of
distress itself. In the meantime, Dunroe suddenly left the room without
Norton's knowledge, who replied, however, to the last question, under
the impression that his lordship was present,
"Ah, my dear Dunroe, the loss of a true friend is a serious thing in a
world like this, where so many cheats and impostors are going."
To this, however, he received no reply; and on looking round and finding
that his dupe had gone out, he said:
"Curse the fellow--he has cut me short. I was acting friendship to the
life, and now he has disappeared.
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