Broth. What, is it any son or kinsman of his?
Sist. No, no. (She weeps.)
Broth. Who then?
Sist. I have told you—
Broth. What, that feeble and decrepit piece of age—
Sist. Nay, brother—
Broth. That sad effect of some threescore years and ten—that antic relique of the last century—
Sist. Alas, dear brother, it is but too true.
Broth. It is impossible.
Sist. One would think so indeed.