Sir LUKE.
Well, and I did not go: Mrs. Circuit made me dine here, in this house—was it my fault?
SERJEANT.
No, no, Sir Luke, no.
Sir LUKE.
At table says she—she said, I was the picture of you—was it my fault?
SERJEANT.
Well, and suppose you are; where's the mischief in that?
Sir LUKE.
Be quiet, I tell you;—then throwing her arms round my neck,—it is my husband himself I embrace, it is my little old man that I kiss!—for she has a prodigious affection for you at bottom—was it my fault?