"I wonder you have ever prevailed on yourself to associate with Irish ladies, since they are so far beneath you."
"Did I say they were beneath me, Miss Hickey? I feel that I have made a deep impression on you."
"Indeed! Yes, you're quite right. I assure you I can't sleep at night for thinking of you, Mr. Legge. It's the best a Christian can do, seeing you think so mightly little of yourself."
"You are triply wrong, Miss Hickey: wrong to be sarcastic with me, wrong to discourage the candor with which you think of me sometimes, and wrong to discourage the candor with which I always avow that I think constantly of myself."
"Then you had better not speak to me, since I have no manners."
"Again! Did I say you had no manners? The warmest expressions of regard from my mouth seem to reach your ears transformed into insults. Were I to repeat the Litany of the Blessed Virgin, you would retort as though I had been reproaching you. This is because you hate me. You never misunderstand Langan, whom you love."
"I don't know what London manners are, Mr. Legge; but in Ireland gentlemen are expected to mind their own business. How dare you say I love Mr. Langan?"
"Then you do not love him?"
"It is nothing to you whether I love him or not."