When a woman wants me to do anything (my daughter, or not, it doesn't matter), I always insist on knowing why.

The oftener you make them rummage their own minds for a reason, the more manageable you will find them in all the relations of life.

It isn't their fault (poor wretches!) that they act first and think afterwards; it's the fault of the fools who humour them.
Penelope's reason why, on this occasion, may be given in her own words.
"I am afraid, father," she said, "Mr.Franklin has hurt Rosanna cruelly, without intending it." "What took Rosanna into the shrubbery walk ?" I asked.
"Her own madness," says Penelope; "I can call it nothing else.

She was bent on speaking to Mr.Franklin, this morning, come what might of it.

I did my best to stop her; you saw that.