Martin Faber the Story of a Criminal

He sprung upon his feet with undisguised horror. His face was ashen pale–his lips were parted in affright; and while I held one of his hands, the other involuntarily was passed over, entirely concealing his eyes. What prompted me to the narration I know not. I could not resist the impulse–I was compelled to speak. It was my fate. I described my crime–I dwelt upon all its particulars; but with a caution, strangely inconsistent with the open confidence I had manifested, I changed the name of the victim–I varied the period, and falsified, in my narrative, all the localities of the crime.