Miss Sky. I don’t understand you—pray explain.
Miss Sna. (Taking a small book from her pocket.) You see this book—look at its title.
Miss Sky. (Reading.) “The Complete Letter Writer.”
Miss Sna. Mr. Pinkey’s despairing epistle is copied word for word, from that book.
Miss Sky. Copied from this book. Oh! the little amatory plagiarist!
Miss Sna. Look and be convinced—turn to page 20.
Miss Sky. (Reading.) “Dear object!”—here it is—even “seared and desolate” isn’t his own. Was there ever such impertinence—Oh! I’m in such a rage, if he were here I’d fling all his paltry letters in his face. (Turning over the leaves of the book.) Here they all are—“Loveliest of women”—“fly on the wings of love”—“meet my charmer”—“happy in her embraces for ever.” Here they all are word for word. How much did the book cost?
Miss Sna. Eighteen-pence.
Miss Sky. His despairing letters! his ardent letters! his reasonable letters! his polite letters! all, all copied from this book. And is it possible that so much despair, so much ardour, so much reason, so much politeness could have cost him but eighteen-pence; when I had fondly imagined they had cost him tears, and lonely hours of agony, and sighs and groans.—Oh! the little monster, if I could meet him now, I’d make him stand in the middle of the room, surrounded by his letters; I’d then set fire to them, and see him perish a martyr to his cool duplicity.
[A knock.