"Sir, I cannot repent."
"Repent! Not you! You triumph, no doubt: John Graham, you descended
partly from a Highlander and a chief, and there is a trace of the Celt
in all you look, speak, and think. You have his cunning and his charm.
The red--(Well then, Polly, the _fair_) hair, the tongue of
guile, and brain of wile, are all come down by inheritance."
"Sir, I _feel_ honest enough," said Graham; and a genuine English
blush covered his face with its warm witness of sincerity. "And yet,"
he added, "I won't deny that in some respects you accuse me justly. In
your presence I have always had a thought which I dared not show you.
I did truly regard you as the possessor of the most valuable thing the
world owns for me. I wished for it: I tried for it. Sir, I ask for it
now."
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