"'Sdeath! do you trifle with me, sirrah?" cried Rowland fiercely. “YOU wouldn’t like to be independent?” he asked, abruptly. She drew it out with shaking fingers. "And on my part, I shall not lift a hand to defend myself. When I examined you for ‘ill humors’ I longed to run my hands over your entire body, to touch your face, to caress you in the places that would give you pleasure. One went in for painting, kept straight and married old Ferringhall a week or so ago—the Lord help her. If you don't conquer this disgraceful propensity in time, you'll soon come to want; and then nothing can save you. "Don't go, I beg of you!" she implored.
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