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O. Moor.
(Earnestly.) Any news of my son Charles?
Francis.
Hm, hm. Why, yes—but—I am afraid—If—you were ailing at all—or in the least indisposed—I beg your pardon—I will tell you at a more convenient time. (Half apart.) Such tidings are not for a frail old man.
O. Moor.
God Almighty! What am I to hear!
Francis.
Let me step aside on moment, while I drop a tear of compassion for my poor lost brother.—But on this subject, as he is your son, I should be silent.—As he is my brother, I ought for ever to conceal his shame—Yet it is my first duty to obey you—in this instance, a melancholy duty.—Pity me, Sir! I need your pity!
O. Moor.
O Charles, Charles! if you knew how you tear your father's heart at this moment!—How the smallest good intelligence of you would add
years