WORM. To your father's executioner.

LOUISA (paces to and fro, wringing her hands). No, no, no! This is
tyrannical! Oh Heaven! If mortals provoke thee, punish them like
mortals; but wherefore must I be placed between two precipices?
Wherefore am I hurled by turns from death to infamy, from infamy to
death? Wherefore is my neck made the footstool of this blood-sucking
fiend? No; do what thou wilt, I will never write that!

WORM (seizing his hat). As you please, miss! It rests entirely on your
own pleasure!

LOUISA. Pleasure, say'st thou? On my own pleasure? Go, barbarian!
Suspend some unfortunate over the pit of hell; then make your demands,
and ask your victim if it be his pleasure to grant your request! Oh!
Thou knowest but too well that the bonds of nature bind our hearts as
firmly as chains! But all is now alike indifferent. Dictate! I cease
to think! Artifices of hell, I yield to ye! (She resumes her seat at
the table.)

WORM. "With the vigilance of an Argus." Have you written it?

LOUISA. Proceed, proceed!

WORM. "The president was here yesterday. It was amusing to see how warm
the poor major was in defence of my honor."

LOUISA. Excellent! Excellent! Oh! Admirable! Quick! quick, go on!