John, who had heard with dilated and angry ears the main points of these disclosures, and who was very far from desiring to come in contact with the man whom upon earth he most despised and disliked, waited to hear no more, but, striding hastily away, surrendered himself, not only to the gloomiest, but to the most bitter and revengeful thoughts. That this man--unsuspicious though he was by nature, and wonderfully ignorant of the wicked ways of a most wicked world--should at last be roused to a sense of the terrible possibility that he was being deceived and wronged was, I think, under the circumstances, only natural; and in proportion to the man’s previous security--in proportion to his entire trust, and complete deficiency of previous susceptibility regarding Honor’s possible shortcomings--was the amount of almost uncontrolable wrath that burned within his aching breast. For as he left that door, as he walked swiftly down the street, and remembered how he had loved--ay, worshipped--in his simple, inexpressive way, the lovely creature who was no longer, he feared, worthy either of his respect or tenderness, no judgment seemed too heavy, no punishment too condign for her who had so outraged his feelings and set at naught his authority. Full of these angry feelings, and boiling over with a desire to redress his wrongs, John Beacham repaired to the tavern where he was in the habit, when chance or business kept him late in London, of satisfying the cravings of hunger. Alone, at the small table on which was served to him his frugal meal of beefsteak and ale, John brooded over his misfortunes, cursing in bitterness of spirit the hour when he first saw Honor Blake’s bewildering face, and exaggerating--as the moments sped by, and his blood grew warmed with one or two unaccustomed “tumblers”--the offences of which she had been guilty.