Osborne broke out into a rhapsody of self-praise and imprecations;--by the first, excusing himself to his own conscience for his conduct; by the second, exaggerating the undutifulness of George. No father in all England could have behaved more generously to a son, who had rebelled against him wickedly. He had died without even so much as confessing he was wrong. Let him take the consequences of his undutifulness and folly. As for himself, Mr. Osborne, he was a man of his word. He had sworn never to speak to that woman, or to recognize her as his son's wife. "And that's what you may tell her," he concluded with an oath; "and that's what I will stick to to the last day of my life."
There was no hope from that quarter then. The widow must live on her slender pittance, or on such aid as Jos could give her. "I might tell her, and she would not heed it," thought Dobbin, sadly: for the poor girl's thoughts were not here at all since her catastrophe, and, stupefied under the pressure of her sorrow, good and evil were alike indifferent to her.

Osborne broke out into a rhapsody of self-praise for his own conduct and imprecations against the undutifulness of George. George had rebelled against him wickedly. He had died without confessing he was wrong. Let him take the consequences of his folly. As for himself, Mr. Osborne was a man of his word. He had sworn never to speak to that woman, or to recognize her as his son's wife. He concluded with an oath; "And that's what I will stick to till the last day of my life."
There was no hope from that quarter then. The widow must live on her slender pittance, or such aid as Jos could give her.
"I might tell her, and she would not heed it," thought Dobbin sadly: for the poor girl was stupefied by sorrow; good and evil were alike indifferent to her. 