"That is what I came here, to-night, to say to you, sir. I am a
wretch--I know that--it is a dishonor to touch my hand, stained with
every vice, and much crime. But I am not entirely lost, though I
told--my father--so, when I met him, not long since. Even a dog will
not turn and bite the hand that has been kind to him. I was a gentleman
once, and am a vulgar fellow now--but there is something worse than
crime, in my estimation; it is cowardice and ingratitude. You shall not
continue to despise my father; he is innocent of that murder. You have
no right to continue your opposition to my brother's marriage with your
daughter, for he is not the son of the murderer of your brother. _I_
count for nothing in this. I am not my father's son, or my brother's
brother. I am an outcast--a lost man--dead, as far as they are
concerned. It was to tell you this that I have come here to-night--and
for that only."
"And--this woman?" said Judge Conway, pale, and glaring at the speaker.
"Let her speak for herself," said Darke, coldly.
"I will do so, with pleasure," said the woman, coolly, but with an
intensely satirical smile. That smile chilled me--it was worse than any
excess of rage. The glance she threw upon Georgia Conway was one of
such profound, if covert, hatred, that it drove my hand to my hilt as
though to grasp some weapon.
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