Bruff.
I know nothing, in a case of this kind, so unendurable as suspense. The
letter with the mourning border was the letter that I opened first.
It informed me that my father was dead, and that I was heir to his great
fortune. The wealth which had thus fallen into my hands brought its
responsibilities with it, and Mr. Bruff entreated me to lose no time in
returning to England.
By daybreak the next morning, I was on my way back to my own country.
The picture presented of me, by my old friend Betteredge, at the time of
my departure from England, is (as I think) a little overdrawn. He has,
in his own quaint way, interpreted seriously one of his young mistress's
many satirical references to my foreign education; and has persuaded
himself that he actually saw those French, German, and Italian sides to
my character, which my lively cousin only professed to discover in jest,
and which never had any real existence, except in our good Betteredge's
own brain. But, barring this drawback, I am bound to own that he has
stated no more than the truth in representing me as wounded to the heart
by Rachel's treatment, and as leaving England in the first keenness of
suffering caused by the bitterest disappointment of my life.
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