I’ll just speak to him. Open the door—You sha’n’t step out, my dear—A letter perhaps from Captain already!—You sha’n’t step out, my dear.
I sighed as if my heart would burst.
But we must step out, Nephew: your lady will faint. Maid, a glass of hartshorn and water!—My dear you must step out—You will faint, child—We must cut your laces.—[I believe my complexion was all manner of colours by turns]—Indeed, you must step out, my dear.
He knew, said I, I should be well, the moment the coach drove from the door. I should not alight. By his soul, I should not.
Lord, Lord, Nephew, Lord, Lord, Cousin, both women in a breath, what ado you make about nothing! You persuade your lady to be afraid of alighting.—See you not that she is just fainting?
Indeed, Madam, said the vile seducer, my dearest love must not be moved in this point against her will. I beg it may not be insisted upon.
Fiddle-faddle, foolish man—What a pother is here! I guess how it is: you are ashamed to let us see what sort of people you carried your lady among—but do you go out, and speak to your friend, and take your letters.
He stept out; but shut the coach-door after him, to oblige me.
The coach may go on, Madam, said I.
The coach shall go on, my dear life, said he.—But he gave not, nor intended to give, orders that it should.