"Listen!" he said.
Zuleika folded her hands on her lap.
"You do not love me. I accept as final your hint that you never will
love me. I need not say--could not, indeed, ever say--how deeply,
deeply you have pained me. As lover, I am rejected. But that
rejection," he continued, striking the table, "is no stopper to my
suit. It does but drive me to the use of arguments. My pride shrinks
from them. Love, however, is greater than pride; and I, John, Albert,
Edward, Claude, Orde, Angus, Tankerton,* Tanville-Tankerton,**
fourteenth Duke of Dorset, Marquis of Dorset, Earl of Grove, Earl of
Chastermaine, Viscount Brewsby, Baron Grove, Baron Petstrap, and Baron
Wolock, in the Peerage of England, offer you my hand. Do not interrupt
me. Do not toss your head. Consider well what I am saying. Weigh the
advantages you would gain by acceptance of my hand. Indeed, they are
manifold and tremendous. They are also obvious: do not shut your eyes
to them. You, Miss Dobson, what are you? A conjurer, and a vagrant;
without means, save such as you can earn by the sleight of your hand;
without position; without a home; all unguarded but by your own self-
respect. That you follow an honourable calling, I do not for one
moment deny.
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