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Updated: May 22, 2025
Vassya as before sits at her feet, struggles with drowsiness, changes her compress, plays at being a Jew, and in the morning after a second night of suffering, Liza is prinking before the looking-glass and putting on her hat. "Wherever are you going, my dear?" asks Vassya, with an imploring look at her.
How, Sir, not to Church, the chiefest Recreation of a City Lady? Sir Feeb. That's all one, Madam, that tricking and dressing, and prinking and patching, is not your Devotion to Heaven, but to the young Knaves that are lick'd and comb'd and are minding you more than the Parson ods bobs, there are more Cuckolds destin'd in the Church, than are made out of it. Sir Cau. Bel.
You look horrid in blue, and you know it, in spite of all your prinking around and pretending. I’d be ashamed to be tricked out that way and know that every dud I had was made for somebody else. As for going around and pretending you have a husband—it’s a lie. You know he’s nothing to you. You know he never told you he cared for you. I tell you he’s mine, and he always will be.”
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