Twi. To an admirer of antiquity, as I am.
Lady. Antiquity again!
Twi. I beg pardon——but——a wig, Ma'am—
Lady. A what? [Petrified.
Twi. A wig. [Bowing.
Lady. Oh! oh! oh! [Choaking.] this is not to be borne—this is too much—ah! ah! [Sitting down, and going into fits.] a direct, plain, palpable, and unequivocal attack upon my family—without evasion or palliative.—I can't bear it any longer.—Oh! oh!— [Shrieking.
Twi. Bless my soul, what shall I do? what's the matter?
Sir Luke. [Without.] Maids! maids! go to your mistress—that good-for-nothing fellow is doing her a mischief.
Enter Aurelia.
Aur. Dear Madam, what is the matter?