Not in the way, said I!—­Whither can the dogs be gone?

O Sir! with a scornful air; not far, I’ll warrant.  One of them was under the window just now; according to order, I suppose, to watch my steps—­ but I will do what I please, and go where I please; and that to your face.

God forbid, that I should hinder you in any thing that you may do with safety to yourself!

Now I verily believe that her design was to slip out, in pursuance of the closet-whispering between her and Miss Rawlins; perhaps to Miss Rawlins’s house.

She then stept back to Mrs. Moore, and gave her something, which proved to be a diamond ring, and desired her [not whisperingly, but with an air of defiance to me] that that might be a pledge for her, till she defrayed her demands; which she should soon find means to do; having no more money about her than she might have occasion for before she came to an acquaintance’s.

Mrs. Moore would have declined taking it; but she would not be denied; and then, wiping her eyes, she put on her gloves—­nobody has a right to stop me, said she!—­I will go!—­Whom should I be afraid of?—­Her very question, charming creature! testifying her fear.

I beg pardon, Madam, [turning to Mrs. Moore, and courtesying,] for the trouble I have given you.—­I beg pardon, Madam, to Miss Rawlins, [courtesying likewise to her,]—­you may both hear of me in a happier hour, if such a one fall to my lot—­and God bless you both!—­struggling with her tears till she sobbed—­and away was tripping.

I stepped to the door:  I put it to; and setting my back against it, took her struggling hand—­My dearest life! my angel! said I, why will you thus distress me?—­Is this the forgiveness which you so solemnly promised?—­

Unhand me, Sir!—­You have no business with me!  You have no right over me!  You know you have not.

But whither, whither, my dearest love, would you go!—­Think you not that I will follow you, were it to the world’s end!—­Whither would you go?

Well do you ask me, whither I would go, who have been the occasion that I have not a friend left!—­But God, who knows my innocence, and my upright intentions, will not wholly abandon me when I am out of your power; but while I am in it, I cannot expect a gleam of the divine grace or favour to reach me.

How severe is this!—­How shockingly severe!—­Out of your presence, my angry fair-one, I can neither hope for the one nor the other.  As my cousin Montague, in the letter you have read, observes, You are my polar star and my guide, and if ever I am to be happy, either here or hereafter, it must be in and by you.

She would then have opened the door.  But I, respectfully opposing her, Begone, man!  Begone, Mr. Lovelace! said she, stop not in my way.  If you would not that I should attempt the window, give me passage by the door; for, once more, you have no right to detain me.