"If you deny it, I won't tell you my secret," threatened he; and I did not interrupt him again—or even attempt to repulse him, though he had taken my hand once more, and half embraced me with his other arm—I was scarcely conscious of it, at the time.
"It is this," resumed he: "that Annabella Wilmot, in comparison with you, is like a flaunting peony compared with a sweet, wild rosebud gemmed with dew—and I love you to distraction!—Now, tell me if that intelligence gives you any pleasure.—Silence again? That means yes—Then let me add, that I cannot live without you, and if you answer, No, to this last question, you will drive me mad—Will you bestow yourself upon me?—you will!" he cried, nearly squeezing me to death in his arms.
"No, no!" I exclaimed, struggling to free myself from him—"you must ask my uncle and aunt."
