ann. Papa . . . perhaps you'd rather not talk about Papa.
lord john. Give yourself to me.
ann. [Drawing away from him.] Four words! There ought to be more in such a sentence . . . it's ridiculous. I want a year to think about its meaning. Don't speak.
lord john. Papa joins our party.
ann. That's what we're after . . . thank you.
lord john. I loathe politics.
ann. Tell me something against them.
lord john. In my opinion your father's not a much bigger blackguard—I beg your pardon—than the rest of us.
ann. . . . Miserable sinners.