He goes to a cupboard.
May the devil smudge that girl!
Calling at the door.
Susan! Susan Deddington! Where's that darnation cordial?
Mrs. Lincoln: It's all right, Abraham. I told the girl to keep it out. The cupboard's choked with papers.
Susan (coming in with bottle and glasses): I'm sure I'm sorry. I was told—
Lincoln: All right, all right, Susan. Get along with you.
Susan: Thank you, sir. She goes.
Lincoln (pouring out drink): Poor hospitality for whiskey-drinking rascals like yourselves. But the thought's good.
Mr. Stone: Don't mention it, Abraham.