MRS. C. (watching them out and then turning to WOODCOCK, who looks at her and then turns his head away as if ashamed of himself) Am I awake? or is it a dream—a nightmare? No! there he stands—at least, all that is left of him. Oh, Marmy! (sobbing loudly and burying her face in her handkerchief)
WOOD. (R.) Oh, Carver! (imitating MRS. CARVER)
MRS. C. (indignantly) So, sir! Scarce ten days married to the sweetest, the gentlest of her sex, you actually have the audacity to indite a declaration of love to another woman—a married woman too! (suddenly bursting again into sobbing) Oh, Marmy!
WOOD. Oh, Carver! (same play)
MRS. C. (L.) I couldn’t have believed it! (ditto)
WOOD. No, more could I! (ditto) You’ve done it, Carver! You would bring me to London, and what’s the result?—that I’m a lost Woodcock. (in a tone of pretended anguish)
MRS. C. Oh, Marmy! (sobbing very loud)
WOOD. Oh, Carver! (ditto)
MRS. C. But no! you can’t be utterly depraved in so short a time!
WOOD. Yes, I am! I feel I’m rapidly settling down into an atrocious profligate, and I can’t help it! That’s the melancholy part of it, I can’t help it! You’ve done it, Carver, you would bring me to London!