“Jane!” recommenced he, with a gentleness that broke me down with grief, and turned me stone-cold with ominous terror⁠—for this still voice was the pant of a lion rising⁠—“Jane, do you mean to go one way in the world, and to let me go another?”

“I do.”

“Jane” (bending towards and embracing me), “do you mean it now?”

“I do.”

“And now?” softly kissing my forehead and cheek.

“I do,” extricating myself from restraint rapidly and completely.

“Oh, Jane, this is bitter! This⁠—this is wicked. It would not be wicked to love me.”

“It would to obey you.”