“You will make me the happiest of mankind,” cried the woollen-draper, falling on his knees, and seizing her hand, which he devoured with kisses.
“Let me go,” cried Winifred. “I disbelieve the whole story you have told me.”
“By Heaven!” cried Kneebone, with increasing fervour, “it is true—as true as my affection for you.”
“I do not doubt it,” retorted Winifred, scornfully; “because I attach credit neither to one nor the other. If Thames is murdered, you are his assassin. Let me go, Sir.”
The woollen-draper made no answer, but hastily starting up, bolted the door.
“What do you mean?” cried Winifred in alarm.
“Nothing more than to obtain a favourable answer to my suit,” replied Kneebone.
“This is not the way to obtain it,” said Winifred, endeavouring to reach the door.
“You shall not go, adorable girl,” cried Kneebone, catching her in his arms, “till you have answered me. You must—you shall be mine.”
“Never,” replied Winifred. “Release me instantly, or I will call my father.”