“He? Who?” said Moll, readjusting her breast knot.
“Do not you well know, false creature? But you are betrayed through that very token in your bosom you used to further your wicked designs.”
“What!” says saucebox: “mayn’t I wear a green bow if it suits my complexion?”
“Lies and duplicity,” cries the other, “are your complexion. It suits them very well.”
“Green stands for ‘forsaken,’” says the vixen. “Is that why you wear one yourself?”
It was a stab that made the poor lady wince. Her face went from pink to white.
“Cruel and inhuman!” she gasped.
“Come, call fair, my lady,” said Moll, in some heat. “If he’s been and mistaken you for me, whoever he is—and I take it that’s the truth—you’ve only got what you asked for. Look through the keyhole, you know, and you’ll get a sore eye.”
Her white teeth showed a moment under the hem of her vizard. With a dart, her ladyship was upon her.
“I will see it—that face”—she could hardly articulate in her passion—“abandoned wretch that you are—masquerading under a false name. I will know this ‘Kit’ of his for whom she is. Take it off, I say.”