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O. Moor.
(With emotion), Till he become another man.—
Francis.
Right Sir, quite right.—But suppose him now to come like a hypocrite, and woo you to compassion, and fawn and flatter till he obtains his pardon; and the next moment he laughs at the fond weakness of his father, in the arms of his harlots.—No, no, Sir. Let him alone, till conscience awakens him;—then he will of his own accord return to his duty,—then may we expect a sincere amendment.
O. Moor.
I must write to him immediately. (He is going out.)
Francis.
Stop, Sir; one word more—I am afraid your anger may make you say something too harsh.—It would be cruel to drive him at once to despair.—And—besides, don't you think—that he might be apt to interpret a letter from your own hand, as perhaps a—sort of pardon—Would it not be better, Sir, if I should write to him?
O. Moor.