HOL. Here is a man who has not seen his daughter for twenty years--who
seeks her--who finds her--sees her--speaks to her--and you put in the
mouth of this man a long rigmarole. He could not speak it. Impossible!
tears--sobs--that's all. My child, here, come to my heart--let me gaze
on you--do not speak. My child, how sweet that name. Come, your
father, 'tis I. Not a word--you know not--you cannot know--my child!
my child! ah! (_FLETCHER writing_).
CON. You are faint?
HOL. No; it's nothing--nothing. That's more like what I should feel.
CON. It's put me out completely. I don't remember a word now.
HOL. (_writing._) He's right. His ideas are more natural than mine.
"One touch of nature----"
CON. (_to HOLDER._) You are crying.
HOL. Likely; it's the character of the father. Let us finish the
scene, will you.
CON. What a splendid actor you would have made!
HOL. Let us finish the scene.