In the gardens of the Rectory at Ullathorne, the ambitious Mr Slope, chaplain to the Bishop of Barchester, declares his ‘love’ for wealthy widow Mrs Bold.
“AH, Eleanor, will it not be sweet, with the Lord’s assistance, to travel hand in hand through this mortal valley which His mercies will make pleasant to us, till hereafter we shall dwell together at the foot of His throne?”
“My name, Mr. Slope, is Mrs. Bold,” said Eleanor, too much disgusted by his blasphemy to be able to bear much more of it.
“Sweetest angel, be not so cold,” said he, and contrived to pass his arm round her waist. He did this with considerable cleverness, for up to this point Eleanor had contrived with tolerable success to keep her distance from him.
She sprang from him as she would have jumped from an adder, but she did not spring far — not, indeed, beyond arm's length — and then, quick as thought, she raised her little hand and dealt him a box on the ear with such right goodwill that it sounded among the trees like a miniature thunderclap.
From ‘Barchester Towers’, by Anthony Trollope (slightly abridged)