“Jane! will you hear reason?” (he stooped and approached his lips to my ear); “because, if you won’t, I’ll try violence.” His voice was hoarse; his look that of a man who is just about to burst an insufferable bond and plunge headlong into wild license. I saw that in another moment, and with one impetus of frenzy more, I should be able to do nothing with him. The present⁠—the passing second of time⁠—was all I had in which to control and restrain him⁠—a movement of repulsion, flight, fear would have sealed my doom⁠—and his. But I was not afraid: not in the least. I felt an inward power; a sense of influence, which supported me. The crisis was perilous; but not without its charm: such as the Indian, perhaps, feels when he slips over the rapid in his canoe. I took hold of his clenched hand, loosened the contorted fingers, and said to him, soothingly⁠—

“Sit down; I’ll talk to you as long as you like, and hear all you have to say, whether reasonable or unreasonable.”