FRANCESCA. You are insolent.
Will you remain against my will?
RITTA. Yes, lady;
Rather than not remain.
FRANCESCA. Ha! impudent!
RITTA. You wrong me, gentle mistress. Love like mine
Does not ask questions of propriety,
Nor stand on manners. I would do you good,
Even while you smote me; I would push you back,
With my last effort, from the crumbling edge
Of some high rock o'er which you toppled me.
FRANCESCA. What do you mean?
RITTA. I know.
FRANCESCA. Know what?
RITTA. Too much.
Pray, do not ask me.
FRANCESCA. Speak!
RITTA. I know—dear lady,
Be not offended—