Then, dragging myself from his embrace and stuttering with rage, "How dare you!" I gasped. "How dare you!"
He looked sulky and offended.
"You said you would marry me—what is a fellow to understand?"
"You are to understand that I will not be mauled and—and kissed like—like Hephzibah at the back door," I said, with freezing dignity, my head in the air.
"Hoity-toity!" (hideous expression!) "What airs you give yourself! But you look so deuced pretty when you are angry!" I did not melt, but stood on the defensive.
He became supplicating again.
"Ambrosine, I love you—don't be cross with me. I won't make you angry again until you are used to me. Ambrosine, say you forgive me." He took my hand. His hands are horrid to touch—coarse and damp. I shuddered involuntarily.
He looked pained at that. A dark-red flush came over all his face. He squared his shoulders and got over the window-sill again.
"You cold statue!" he said, spitefully. "I will leave you."
"Go," was all I said, and I did not move an inch.