So strongly was he impressed with this idea, that grasping the iron bar with both hands, he dashed it furiously against the door, making the passage echo with the blows. He would sit in his inner office and compose conversations with her, penetrating, illuminating, and nearly conclusive—conversations that never proved to be of the slightest use at all with her when he met her face to face. "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. “God in Heaven, Annabel!” he cried. Everyone has gone away again, so that I can do so all alone. No wonder that Trenchard, as he gazed at this fearful being, should have some misgivings cross him.
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