With such a dawn of conscience. For the heart,
Made firewood for his sake, and flaming up
To his very face . . he warmed his feet at it;
But deigned to let my carriage stop him short
In park or street,—he leaning on the door
With news of the committee which sate last
On pickpockets at suck.’
‘You jest—you jest.’
‘As martyrs jest, dear (if you read their lives),
Upon the axe which kills them. When all’s done
By me, . . for him—you’ll ask him presently
The colour of my hair—he cannot tell,
Or answers ‘dark’ at random,—while, be sure,
He’s absolute on the figure, five or ten,
Of my last subscription. Is it bearable,
And I a woman?’
‘Is it reparable,
Though I were a man?’
‘I know not. That’s to prove.
But, first, this shameful marriage.’
‘Ay?’ I cried.
’Then really there’s a marriage.’
‘Yesterday
I held him fast upon it. ‘Mister Leigh,’
Said I, ‘shut up a thing, it makes more noise.
‘The boiling town keeps secrets ill; I’ve known
‘Yours since last week. Forgive my knowledge so:
