I shall faint, I shall die. Oh!
FOIB. Say 'tis your nephew's hand. Quickly, his plot, swear, swear
it! [To him.]
WAIT. Here's a villain! Madam, don't you perceive it? Don't you
see it?
LADY. Too well, too well. I have seen too much.
WAIT. I told you at first I knew the hand. A woman's hand? The
rascal writes a sort of a large hand: your Roman hand.--I saw there
was a throat to be cut presently. If he were my son, as he is my
nephew, I'd pistol him.
FOIB. O treachery! But are you sure, Sir Rowland, it is his
writing?
WAIT. Sure? Am I here? Do I live? Do I love this pearl of India?
I have twenty letters in my pocket from him in the same character.
LADY. How?
FOIB. Oh, what luck it is, Sir Rowland, that you were present at
this juncture! This was the business that brought Mr. Mirabell
disguised to Madam Millamant this afternoon. I thought something
was contriving, when he stole by me and would have hid his face.
LADY. How, how? I heard the villain was in the house indeed; and
now I remember, my niece went away abruptly when Sir Wilfull was to
have made his addresses.
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