Cecilia now, half rising, and regarding him with mingled terror and anger, eagerly exclaimed, “If you do not mean to mangle and destroy me, begone this instant.”
“To mangle you!” repeated Delvile, shuddering, “how horrible!—but I deserve it!—look not, however, so terrified, and I will tear myself away from you. Suffer me but to assist in removing you from this place, and I will only watch you at a distance, and never see you more till you permit me to approach you.”
“Why, why,” cried Cecilia, with a look of perplexity and impatience, “will you not tell me your name, and where you come from?”
“Do you not know me?” said he, struck with new horror; “or do you only mean to kill me by the question?”
“Do you bring me any message from Mr Monckton?”
“From Mr Monckton?—no; but he lives and will recover.”
“I thought you had been Mr Monckton yourself.”
“Too cruel, yet justly cruel Cecilia!—is then Delvile utterly renounced?—the guilty, the unhappy Delvile!—is he cast off for ever? have you driven him wholly from your heart? do you deny him even a place in your remembrance?”
“Is your name, then, Delvile?”
“O what is it you mean? Is it me or my name you thus disown?”