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Updated: June 10, 2025
There is something indeed that you can't pick out, for the very good reason that in any serious sense of the word it isn't there. Florentia. The public has taste, then, if it recognizes and delights in a fine picture. Dorriforth. I never said it hadn't, so far as that goes. The public likes to be amused, and small blame to it.
I delight in the play; more people than ever delight in it with me; more people than ever go to it, and there are ten theatres in London where there were two of old. Dorriforth. Which is what was to demonstrated. Whence do they derive their nutriment? Auberon. Why, from the enormous public. Dorriforth. My dear fellow, I'm not talking of the box-office.
The instant Dorriforth was introduced to her as her "guardian, and her deceased father's most beloved friend," she burst into tears, and kneeling before him, promised ever to obey him as a father. She told him artlessly she had expected him to be elderly and plain.
It's a morceau de vie, as the French say. Auberon. Oh, don't begin on the French! Amicia. It's a French experiment que voulez-vous? Auberon. English experiments will do. Dorriforth. No doubt they would if there were any. But I don't see them. Amicia. Fortunately: think what some of them might be!
You must stay here and talk to Mr. Dorriforth." "They were making hellish noises all last night; I had no rest at all," Nagle went on inconsequently. "They were running their puffing devil up and down, 'The Bridport Wonder' that's what they call it, reverend sir," he turned to the priest.
But when it isn't too much a matter of the paraphernalia it is too little a matter of the play. A play nowadays is a rare bird. I should like to see ¦ one. Florentia. There are lots of them, all the while the newspapers talk about them. People talk about them at dinners. Dorriforth. What do they say about them? Florentia. The newspapers? Dorriforth. No, I don't care for them.
In later years Mrs. Inchbald lived quietly on her savings, retaining a flattering social position by her beauty and cleverness. She died on August 1, 1821. I. The Priest's Ward Dorriforth, bred at St. Omer's in all the scholastic rigour of that college, was, by education and the solemn vows of his order, a Roman Catholic priest.
The short afterpiece it was in truth very slight began with Amicia's entrance and her declaration that she would never again go to an afternoon performance: it was such a horrid relapse into the real to find it staring at you through the ugly daylight on coming out of the blessed fictive world. Dorriforth. Ah, you touch there on one of the minor sorrows of life.
His uneasiness made him desire her to forbid Lord Frederick's visits, who, alarmed, confounded, and provoked, remonstrated passionately. "By heaven, I believe Mr. Dorriforth loves you himself, and it is jealousy which makes him treat me in this way!" "For shame, my lord!" cried Miss Woodley, trembling with horror at the sacrilegious idea.
The outcome of this incident was a duel, to prevent which Miss Milner deceived him by confessing a passion for Lord Frederick, although to Miss Woodley she avowed the real truth, that it was Dorriforth she loved. "Do you suppose I love Lord Frederick? Do you suppose I can love him? Oh, fly, and prevent my guardian from telling him this untruth! This duel is horrible even beyond anything else!
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