Clif. This letter from my lord.
Jul. Oh, fate! who speaks?
Clif. The secretary of my lord.
(Rises.)
Jul. I breathe!
I could have sworn ’twas he!
(Makes an effort to look at him, but is unable.)
So like the voice!—
I dare not look lest there the form should stand.
How came he by that voice? ’Tis Clifford’s voice