REBECCA. (R.) Oh, sir, sir, sir! what does all this mean? You’ll frighten us all out of our senses!
VAN. Oh, Rebecca, did you but know the atrocities that have been going on here!
REBECCA. What atrocities?
VAN. What atrocities! They’re not fit to be told to a respectable young woman like you. This is the very temple of wickedness. Talk of the horrors of the Reign of Terror, or the Rump Parliament—they’re nothing to it.
REBECCA. What horrors, sir?
VAN. What horrors? French polished mahogany—a silk dress—and a child out at nurse.
REBECCA. But what can master’s little boy have to do with you, sir?
VAN. Rebecca, he is not his son—he’s mine.
REBECCA. Your son?
VAN. My son, and yet not my son—he is my father, but I am not his son. No, no—I am his son, and he is not. No, no, no! my head dances the polka.