george-atherton

Hamilton, to Washington’s astonishment, flung himself into a chair, and dropped his head on his arms. In a moment he began to sob convulsively. A malignant fever was breeding in his depressed system; the blood still surged in his head. He had a despairing sense that his character was in ruins; he was humiliated to his depths; he despised himself so bitterly that he forgot the existence of Jefferson.
The himour and anger died out of Washington. He went forward hastily and locked the door. Then he stooped over Hamilton, and pressed him closely in his arms.
“My dear boy!” he said huskily. “My dear boy!”
—  The Conqueror, by Gerthrude Atherton