Let me, said the bishop, speak to her. He arose, and, taking her hand, walked with her about the room. You look pretty, my Clementina! Your ornaments are charmingly fancied. What made you dress yourself so prettily?
She looked earnestly at him, in silence. He repeated his question—I speak, said she, all my heart; and then I suffer for it. Every body is against me.
You shall not suffer for it: every body is for you.
I confessed to Mrs. Beaumont; I confessed to you, brother: but what did I get by it?—Let go my hand. I don't love you, I believe.
I am sorry for it. I love you, Clementina, as I love my own soul!
Yet you never chide your own soul!
He turned his face from her to us. She must not be treated harshly, said he. He soothed her in a truly brotherly manner.
Tell me, added he to his soothings, Did you expect any body here, that you find not?
Did I? Yes, I did.—Camilla, come hither.—Let go my hand, brother.
He did. She took Camilla under the arm—Don't you know, Camilla, said she, what you heard said of somebody's threatening somebody?—Don't let anybody hear us; drawing her to one end of the room.—I want to take a walk with you into the garden, Camilla.