"I—I—I'm n-not Mrs. Burrows. I told you before."
"So? You've exorcised the ghost of the late husband? May his divorced spirit fry, for all I care, Miss Burrows. Or perhaps you're only a widow, at home in Helena."
"Now you go away, Mr. la Mancha, or I'll get right mad."
"Don't call me mister. Call me Blackguard."
"I got no use for you anyways."
"You advertised for me."
"I didn't! I never! You advertised!"
"Ah! And you sent me the photograph of an ugly aunt—a scarecrow—instead of your lovely self. Why—why?"
"Say," she bridled, "if Mr. Sarde sent you to —wall—all I kin say is—"
"Don't you mean was?"