But I think, Sir--I think I _might_ make her like me, Sir.

They come at last, sometimes, to like those that love them so--so _desperately: that_ may not be for me, 'tis true.

I only ask to plead my own sad cause.

I only want to see her--gracious Heaven--but to see her--to show her how I was wronged--to tell her she can make me what she will--an honourable, pure, self-denying, devoted man, or leave me in the dark, alone, with nothing for it but to wrap my cloak about my head, and leap over the precipice.' 'Captain Devereux, why will you doubt me?
I've spoken the truth.

I have already said I must not give your message; and you are not to suppose I dislike you, because I would fain have your faults mended.' 'Faults! have I?
To be sure I have.