"Now, why is Mr. Burr-Hamilton in one of my sitting rooms, on his own, weeping so piteously?"

The voice is low, not just in volume but in pitch: a rumble felt in the pit of the chest. It is Washington who laboriously steps inside. He is still feeling some of the injuries that Hamilton inflicted on him, in his frenzy, and it makes him move with deliberation.

Or maybe it's his latest hemorrhoids.

"I think," says Washington, "that, perhaps, he is being foolish. But I decided to ask him, before I pass judgment." He takes a seat across from the chaise where Burr has slept, and offers a handkerchief, ever the gentleman.