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Phoebe Meryll has been lamenting the pain and anguish of being in
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WILFRED. Mistress Meryll!
PHŒBE. (looking up) Eh! Oh! It’s you, is it? You may go away, if you like. Because I don’t want you, you know.
WILFRED. Haven’t you anything to say to me?
PHŒBE. Oh yes! Are the birds all caged? The wild beasts all littered down? All the locks, chains, bolts, and bars in good order? Is the Little Ease sufficiently uncomfortable? The racks, pincers, and thumbscrews all ready for work? Ugh! you brute!
WILFRED. These allusions to my professional duties are in doubtful taste. I didn’t become a head-jailer because I like head-jailing. I didn’t become an assistanttormentor because I like assistant-tormenting. We can’t all be sorcerers, you know.
(PHŒBE is annoyed) Ah! you brought that upon yourself.
PHŒBE. Colonel Fairfax is not a sorcerer. He’s a man of science
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