“Knowing me thoroughly now⁠—all my antecedents, all my responsibilities⁠—having long known my faults, can you and I still be friends?”

“If Monsieur wants a friend in me, I shall be glad to have a friend in him.”

“But a close friend I mean⁠—intimate and real⁠—kindred in all but blood. Will Miss Lucy be the sister of a very poor, fettered, burdened, encumbered man?”

I could not answer him in words, yet I suppose I did answer him; he took my hand, which found comfort in the shelter of his. His friendship was not a doubtful, wavering benefit⁠—a cold, distant hope⁠—a sentiment so brittle as not to bear the weight of a finger: I at once felt (or thought I felt) its support like that of some rock.