You try to kill yourself with every vice under heaven, and only get more strength, more grace, more pleasure from it--you are always safe because I hate you.
Yes! I hate you, sir!" No words can give the force, the malignity, the concentrated meaning with which the words were hurled out, as the majestic form of the old Lord towered in the shadow, with his hands outstretched as if in imprecation.
Cecil heard him in silence, doubting if he could hear aright, while the bitter phrases scathed and cut like scourges, but he bowed once more with the manner that was as inseparable from him as his nature.
"Hate is so exhausting; I regret I give you the trouble of it.

May I ask why you favor me with it ?" "You may!" thundered his father, while his hawk's eyes flashed their glittering fire.

"You are like the man I cursed living and curse dead.
You look at me with Alan Bertie's eyes, you speak to me with Alan Bertie's voice; I loved your mother, I worshiped her; but--you are his son, not mine!" The secret doubt, treasured so long, was told at last.

The blood flushed Bertie's face a deep and burning scarlet; he started with an irrepressible tremor, like a man struck with a shot; he felt like one suddenly stabbed in the dark by a sure and a cruel hand.

The insult and the amazement of the words seemed to paralyze him for the moment, the next he recovered himself, and lifted his head with as haughty a gesture as his father's, his features perfectly composed again, and sterner than in all his careless, easy life they ever yet had looked.
"You lie, and you know you lie.