“A charming hand; the hand of a virtuous woman?”
“Yes,” said Josephine as cool as a cucumber, too sublimely and absurdly innocent even to blush.
“Is it your own?”
“Sir!” She blushed at that, I can tell you.
“Because if it was, I would ask you to give it me. (I’ve fired the first shot anyway.)”
Josephine whipped her hand off his palm, where it lay like cream spilt on a trencher.
“Ah! I see; you are not free: you have a lover.”
“No, no!” cried Josephine in distress; “I love nobody but my mother and sister: I never shall.”
“Your mother,” cried Raynal; “that reminds me; he told me to ask her; by Jove, I think he told me to ask her first;” and Raynal up with his scabbard and was making off.
Josephine begged him to do nothing of the kind.