Mrs. Cod. What has caused this fever?
Cod. I—I—don’t know.
Mrs. Cod. Coddle, your mind is diseased.
Cod. My dear, don’t speak to me in that fierce manner, you make me tremble from head to foot.
Mrs. Cod. You pass’d a wretched night.
Cod. I did.
Mrs. Cod. You talk’d in your sleep.
Cod. No!—(Alarmed.)—Did I—what did I say?
Mrs. Cod. Sufficient to rouse my suspicions.
Cod. I have been criminating myself—’twas while I was dreaming of being hanged.—(Aside.)—What will become of me?