He did not read them over, but promised to do so on the morrow, which was Saturday.
He was already far into the small hours, and knew that he ought to be in bed.
When he was there he could not sleep.

That love of his was too deeply-rooted to be torn up by a few proud words that haunted him all the night, and to which he was constantly adding 'Yes, you are the heiress of Glanyravon, and I am only a farmer's son and a poor curate.'.