Cecilia.
I had rather see't than you.
Jacconot.
What's i' the wind,—nobleman, or gentleman, or a brain fancy—am not I at hand? Are you mad?
Cecilia (overcome).
I'd gladly believe I have been so.
Jacconot.
Good. I'm content you see me aright once more, and acknowledge yourself wrong.
Cecilia (half aside, and tearfully).
O, wrong indeed—very wrong—to my better nature—my better nature.