“Good God!-good Heaven! My dearest life, what is it I have done?-what is it I have said?-”
“You best know, Sir, what and why: but don’t hold me here,-let me be gone; and do you!”
“Not till you forgive me!-I cannot part with you in anger.”
“For shame, for shame, Sir!” cried I, indignantly, “do you suppose I am to be thus compelled?-do you take advantage of the absence of my friends to affront me?”
“No, Madam,” cried he, rising: “I would sooner forfeit my life than act so mean a part. But you have flung me into amazement unspeakable, and you will not condescend to listen to my request of giving me some explanation.”
“The manner, Sir,” said I, “in which you spoke that request, made, and will make, me scorn to answer it.”
“Scorn!-I will own to you, I expected not such displeasure from Miss Anville.”
“Perhaps, Sir, if you had, you would less voluntarily have merited it.”
“My dearest life, surely it must be known to you, that the man does not breathe who adores you so passionately, so fervently, so tenderly as I do!-Why, then, will you delight in perplexing me?-in keeping me in suspense?-in torturing me with doubt?”
“I, Sir, delight in perplexing you!-you are much mistaken.-Your suspense, your doubts, your perplexities,-are of your own creating; and believe me, Sir, they may offend, but they can never delight me:-but as you have yourself raised, you must yourself satisfy them.”