“At the Deanery of St. Marvells, with the cares of a household, and a stable which contains only a thirteen-year-old pony, you may obtain rest and forgetfulness.” And she is coming!
Sheba and Salome.
When? Oh! when?
The Dean.
She merely says, “Soon.”
Sheba and Salome.
[Stamping with vexation.] Ugh!
The Dean.
Salome, Sheba, you will, I fear, find her a sad broken creature, a weary fragment, a wave-tossed derelict. Let it be your patient endeavor to win back a flickering smile to the wan features of this chastened widow.
Blore enters with a telegram.