“Yes, I will.”
“On your honour?”
These reiterated questions were simply pretexts for steps nearer to the answering lips.
“And I may see you?” he went on.
“Yes.”
“Wherever you are staying? And sometimes alone? Alone!—”
“Not if you do not know that I am to be respected,” said Emilia, huddled in the passionate fold of his arms. He released her instantly, and was departing, wounded; but his heart counselled wiser proceedings.
“To know that you are in England, breathing the same air with me, near me! is enough. Since we are to meet on those terms, let it be so. Let me only see you till some lucky shot puts me out of your way.”
This 'some lucky shot,' which is commonly pointed at themselves by the sentimental lovers, with the object of hitting the very centre of the hearts of obdurate damsels, glanced off Emilia's, which was beginning to throb with a comprehension of all that was involved in the word she had given.
“I have your promise?” he repeated: and she bent her head.