For your daughter I will do anything that you and she and he may wish,--but one thing.

I cannot make her Countess of Scroope." "You must make her your wife," said the woman, shouting at him.
"I will do so to-morrow if a way can be found by which she shall not become Countess of Scroope." "That is, he will marry her without making her his wife," said the priest.

"He will jump over a broomstick with her and will ask me to help him,--so that your feelings and hers may be spared for a week or so.
Mrs.O'Hara, he is a villain,--a vile, heartless, cowardly reprobate, so low in the scale of humanity that I degrade myself by spaking to him.

He calls himself an English peer! Peer to what?
Certainly to no one worthy to be called a man!" So speaking, the priest addressed himself to Mrs.
O'Hara, but as he spoke his eyes were fixed full on the face of the young lord.
"I will have his heart out of his body," exclaimed Mrs.O'Hara.
"Heart;--he has no heart.

You may touch his pocket;--or his pride, what he calls his pride, a damnable devilish inhuman vanity; or his name,--that bugbear of a title by which he trusts to cover his baseness; or his skin, for he is a coward.