What could I say or do?
These have been weeks of tedious horror and pain. With the exception of
Colonel Bunnion, I have kept myself aloof from my fellow creatures
in the hotel, even taking my meals in my own rooms, not wishing to be
stared at as the hero of the scandal that convulsed the place. And with
regard to Colonel Bunnion shall I be accused of cynicism if I say that
I admitted him--not to my confidence--but to my company, because I know
that it delighted the honest but boring fellow to prove to himself that
he could rise above British prejudice and exhibit tact in dealing with
a man in a delicate position? For, mark you, all the world--even those
nearest and dearest to me as I soon discovered--believed that the wife
of the man who was murdered before my eyes was my mistress. Colonel
Bunnion was kind, and he meant to be kind. He was a gentleman for all
his wearisomeness, and his kindness was such as I could accept. But I
know what I say about him is true. Ye gods! Haven't I felt myself the
same swelling pride in my broadmindedness? When a man is going on my
journey he does not palter with truth.
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