“I suppose, Mr. But also this must not go on. “I think that you are very dense. "Is this a season to speak on such a subject?" "Perhaps not," rejoined the woollen-draper; "but the uncontrollable violence of my passion must plead my excuse. Master, your humble servant. You know—if you want freedom. And by degrees, perhaps, that maiden distrust of yours that makes you shrink from my kisses, will vanish. Bête, she told herself fiercely. I'll turn cracksman, like my father—rob old Wood—he has chests full of money, and I know where they're kept—I'll rob him, and give the swag to you, Poll—I'll—" Jack would have said more; but, losing his balance, he fell to the ground, and, when taken up, he was perfectly insensible. "You know what I mean," said the trader, gravely.
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