Is it in a blue cover, ma'am?
LYDIA. My smelling-bottle, you simpleton!
LUCY. Oh, the drops! Here, ma'am.
Presently the approach of Mrs. Malaprop and Sir Anthony Absolute is
announced. Cries Lydia: "Here, my dear Lucy, hide these books. Quick,
quick. Fling 'Peregrine Pickle' under the toilet; throw 'Roderick
Random' into the closet; put 'The Innocent Adultery' into 'The Whole
Duty of Man;' thrust 'Lord Aimworth' under the sofa; cram 'Ovid'
behind the bolster; there, put 'The Man of Feeling' into your
pocket--so, so--now lay 'Mrs. Chapone' in sight, and leave 'Fordyce's
Sermons' open on the table."
LUCY. O, burn it, ma'am. The hairdresser has torn away as far as
"Proper Pride."
LYDIA. Never mind; open at "Sobriety." Fling me "Lord
Chesterfield's Letters." Now for 'em!
It will be perceived that the property-master of the theatre is here
required to produce quite a library of stage-books. Does he buy them
by the dozen, from the nearest book-stall--out of that trunk full of
miscellaneous volumes, boldly labelled, "All these at fourpence"? And
does he then recover them with the bright blue or scarlet that is so
dear to him, daubing them here and there with his indispensable Dutch
metal? Of course their contents can matter little.
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