Abigail. You do not answer me; and I, poor lone orphan that I am, tremble in your presence.
Dr. A. Eh? Are you often alone? Miss, or madam, let's drop this nonsense. Have, you any business with me? I am Dr. Aconite.
Abigail. You are the friend of the unfortunate; the guide of suffering humanity to havens of rest; the healer of broken hearts; the finger-post that points the way to the mansion of health. O, human angel, list to my woes.
Dr. A. Madam, or miss, I shall be happy to aid you with my professional skill.
Abigail. Professional skill? Away with it. I want it not. I want sympathy, friendship, love.
Dr. A. Ah, indeed. Then I'm sorry I cannot help you. They are not in my line.
Abigail. List to a tale of grief. At the age of four I lost my mother, at the age of ten my father, at the age of fifteen my sister, at twenty my only brother, at twenty-five my uncle, at thirty—
Dr. A. O, stop, stop, stop! Spare me. I didn't kill them. I haven't been in practice a year. You must see I had no time for such slaughter.
Abigail. I am alone in the world. No relatives, no friends, "no one to love,"—only this. (Shows book.)