You did not complain then that I personated you—no, nor when Sir John came to me in Paris, and for your sake I lied. “My God! Ann Veronica,” he said, struggling to keep his hold upon her; “my God! Tell me—tell me now—tell me you love me!” His expression was as it were rapaciously furtive. "Let us hope that, like her who 'loved much,' her sins are forgiven her. Tickle the ears of their reverences with any idle nonsense you please: but tell them nothing you care to have repeated. It may not be just, it may not be fair, but things are so.
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