I proceeded to do so. He was very voluble in a quiet way. Before long
I was in possession of all the materials for an exhaustive biography
of him. And the strange thing was that I could not, with the best will
in the world, believe that he was lying to me. I had never heard a man
telling so obviously the truth. And the truth about any one, however
commonplace, must always be interesting. Indeed, it is the commonplace
truth--the truth of widest application--that is the most interesting
of all truths.
I do not now remember many details of this man's story; I remember
merely that he was `travelling in lace,' that he had been born at
Boulogne (this was the one strange feature of the narrative), that
somebody had once left him ?100 in a will, and that he had a little
daughter who was `as pretty as a pink.' But at the time I was
enthralled. Besides, I liked the man immensely. He was a kind and
simple soul, utterly belying his appearance. I wondered how I ever
could have feared him and hated him. Doubtless, the reaction from my
previous state intensified the kindliness of my feelings. Anyhow, my
heart went out to him. I felt that we had known each other for many
years. While he poured out his recollections I felt that he was an old
crony, talking over old days which were mine as well as his.
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