Let me be not thus constrained to answer.

Then pausing, and gaining more spirit, Let me go, said she:  I am but a woman—­but a weak woman.

But my life is in my own power, though my person is not—­I will not be thus constrained.

You shall not, Madam, quitting her hand, bowing; but my heart is at my mouth, and hoping farther provocation.

She arose, and was hurrying away.

I pursue you not, Madam—­I will try your generosity.  Stop—­return—­this moment stop, return, if, Madam, you would not make me desperate.

She stopt at the door; burst into tears—­O Lovelace!—­How, how, have I deserved——­

Be pleased, dearest angel, to return.

She came back—­but with declared reluctance; and imputing her compliance to terror.

Terror, Jack, as I have heretofore found out, though I have so little benefited by the discovery, must be my resort, if she make it necessary—­ nothing else will do with the inflexible charmer.

She seated herself over-against me; extremely discomposed—­but indignation had a visible predominance in her features.

I was going towards her, with a countenance intendedly changed to love and softness:  Sweetest, dearest angel, were my words, in the tenderest accent:—­But, rising up, she insisted upon my being seated at a distance from her.

I obeyed, and begged her hand over the table, to my extended hand; to see, if in any thing she would oblige me.  But nothing gentle, soft, or affectionate, would do.  She refused me her hand!—­Was she wise, Jack, to confirm to me, that nothing but terror would do?

Let me only know, Madam, if your promise to endeavour to wait with patience the event of next Thursday meant me favour?

Do you expect any voluntary favour from one to whom you give not a free choice?

Do you intend, Madam, to honour me with your hand, in your uncle’s presence, or do you not?

My heart and my hand shall never be separated.  Why, think you, did I stand in opposition to the will of my best, my natural friends.

I know what you mean, Madam—­Am I then as hateful to you as the vile Solmes?

Ask me not such a question, Mr. Lovelace.

I must be answered.  Am I as hateful to you as the vile Solmes?

Why do you call Mr. Solmes vile?

Don’t you think him so, Madam?

Why should I?  Did Mr. Solmes ever do vilely by me?

Dearest creature! don’t distract me by hateful comparisons! and perhaps by a more hateful preference.

Don’t you, Sir, put questions to me that you know I will answer truly, though my answer were ever so much to enrage you.

My heart, Madam, my soul is all your’s at present.  But you must give me hope, that your promise, in your own construction, binds you, no new cause to the contrary, to be mine on Thursday.  How else can I leave you?