Soph. The daughter is:
The mother broke her heart with grief.
Chrem. Alas!
Soph. And I a poor, unknown, distress’d old woman,
Endeavoring to manage for the best,
Contriv’d to match the virgin to a youth,
Son to the master of this house.
Chrem. To Antipho?
Soph. The very same.
Chrem. What! has he two wives then?